


Pride and Prejudice and Immortals (and Zombies)

by Kyra_Bane



Category: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2016), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, And The Idea Definitely Diverges At Some Point, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Because It's the Old Guard, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon-Typical Violence, Except I Had to Make Up a Lot of Characters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Adding the Major Character Death Warning, Pining, Slow Burn, Zombie Apocalypse, but it will earn that explicit tag for more than just violence, is that a spoiler?, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 100,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.Or, Yusuf Al-Kaysani protects his sister's secret, kills zombies, and will definitely never fall in love with that cold-hearted, arrogant Nicolò di Genova.Or, I really wanted to write Joe/Nicky Regency fic but still have them kill things. Enjoy!
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 723
Kudos: 496





	1. Prologue: One Year Earlier

**Author's Note:**

> Still working on my OTP challenge but the idea for this grabbed me and wouldn't let go so HERE IT IS.
> 
> Basing it all on the movie versions of both works because 1) The Old Guard comic is basically just like the film and 2) I haven't _read_ Pride and Prejudice and Zombies in ages but I did re-watch the film last night. God, I love it.
> 
> Also, I'm not a historian so I'll do a bit of research but we all know what we're really here for, right?

"He compared my eyes to the darkness of the night sky," Nile said and Yusuf turned his head away as if to scan the trees around them. The poor man was trying to unburden his feelings; it would be rude to laugh – but a poet he most certainly was not.

" _Yusuf_ ," Nile said, after a moment, and he looked at her. His amusement was reflected back at him and it was only a moment before they both began laughing. 

"He is trying, poor thing," Yusuf said. "I expect a proposal will be imminent." 

His sister pulled a face, shifted to adjust her musket strap on her shoulder. "I certainly hope not," she replied primly. "I have done nothing to warrant his affection."

"You think you do not warrant it in and of yourself?" 

She rolled her eyes but Yusuf saw the flush to her cheeks. "You see why mama's so confused you have never wed?" she returned. "Saying nonsense like that all the time."

"Hm, but I have yet to find a man who would say such nonsense to me in return," Yusuf teased. They began walking again. The woods were quiet around them but they were both still well-armed, Yusuf's saif at his hip, Nile's musket on her back; not to mention the array of knives they both carried. 

"I know they expect me to marry," Nile said, voice pitched quiet. "I just have not found anyone I can imagine spending the rest of my life with. And I know, too, that I am running out of time."

Yusuf bumped his shoulder against hers. "You have time yet. The right person will want you no matter your age."

"You believe that, old man?"

He laughed. "At three and thirty, I have to. Admittedly, it is not such a problem for me."

Nile looked at him sharply and when she opened her mouth, he knew she would chastise him for the lie. Then he heard it. A rustle in the undergrowth; a groan.

His saif was in his hand and Nile had her musket at the ready, all loaded as they stood back-to-back. "How many?" she whispered, her voice steady.

Yusuf did not answer. He was scanning the trees now for the sign of any movement; be it a rabbit, a fox, or something... larger.

The first zombie lumbered out of the trees to his left and he moved, cutting it down with one short strike. Its head rolled across the damp ground and Yusuf caught sight of a second out of the corner of his eye. Nile shot once and then she was drawing her own sword, too, meeting the others that ambled out towards them.

Yusuf cut down a second, a third, pulled a dagger from the other side of his belt as another head rolled. Where had they all come from? They were dressed in servants' garb but the nearest estate to Longbourn was Netherfield–

Mrs Featherstone's daughter, Cassandra, stumbled out of the woods, blood oozing from her throat and Yusuf let fly a short curse. "Netherfield has fallen," he said and he heard Nile grunt, another thud of a body landing in the earth.

"They did not ring the bell," she said, easing back toward him. They were not yet surrounded, but this did not bode well. 

"I think they were all rather too dead to do that," Yusuf replied. 

There was no more time for talk. Cassandra was next and Yusuf would pray for her later, for all of them, but now there were more zombies than he could count and all he could focus on was cutting down one and the next and the next.

Blood spattered across his face as he removed another head and there was another zombie standing beside it but Yusuf did not slow or hesitate. Nile was in his periphery, his sister moving as fluidly and efficiently as he, and when they overcame the horde, when bodies scattered the earth around them, Yusuf stopped to take a breath.

He did not lower his weapon. Nile did not lower hers.

"God in Heaven," she murmured and Yusuf grunted his assent. He could see more clearly now; there had been many more people at Netherfield than this, but it was apparent that most of the zombies had wandered this way, as if they knew there would be travellers along the road.

"We should carry on to town," Yusuf said. "The regiment will be able to deal with the corpses." A terrible sadness overcame him, as it always did after battle. He had known these people, had spoken with them, danced, played card games until late in the night. They were all gone now, and so quickly.

Nile nodded once, looking around again before she sheathed her sword. She bent to retrieve her musket and Yusuf saw the flash of movement behind her.

He was not quick enough – the zombie moved with single-minded purpose, dragging his sister by the shoulders and when its dull teeth bit into her throat, she screamed. Yusuf's dagger flew through the air, finding its mark at the base of the zombie's skull but even as it fell to the ground, Nile swayed, blood running in torrents, soaking into her dress.

Yusuf caught her before she fell and panic clawed its way up his throat, tears springing to his eyes. He knelt in the blood-soaked grass, cradling her in his arms and he knew with a look that there was no hope for her now. 

"Yusuf," she managed, blood bubbling between her lips and Yusuf choked on his own sorrow, tried to swallow it down. He had to comfort her, he had to–

"Everything will be alright," he said. He knew what he had to do. "It really– It is not so bad, Nile, you will be okay, I promise." He had fallen into Arabic and she reached for him, her grip strong.

"Kill me, Yusuf," she said and her breathing was quick, shallow. She would bleed out and then she would die and then she would rise again. He felt hot tears on his cheeks and he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Aaeshik," she breathed and when the light left her eyes, Yusuf sobbed. His saif was somewhere on the ground behind him but he still had his dagger. He tightened his grip on it even as his shoulders shook.

His most beloved sister. And how would he tell the others? He was supposed to protect her– Yusuf took a shuddering breath. He had little time. He would have to do this now, do the worst later. 

He lay her down gently, turned her head and with the bite mark hidden, she looked as though she was resting. She looked the same way he had seen her on a hundred summer days, when she managed to escape training and rest on the chaise lounge for a moment. He half expected her to open her eyes and smile. 

A smile he would never see again.

He rose to his feet, fingers clenching and unclenching around the hilt of the dagger. Remove or destroy the head or evil would take hold, would fill his sister from the inside out. He clenched his eyes shut, stamped down once, twice.

After it was done, he threw up behind a tree, gasped out a breath and leaned on the trunk for support. Should he go into town or back to Longbourn? They would all be devastated; Nile was the favourite of anyone she met, she shone like a beacon and Yusuf was not sure how his family would survive this.

When he heard a gasp behind him, a rattling breath, his fingers dug so hard into the tree trunk his knuckles went white. He had destroyed her, had destroyed all of them. Was Allah playing another cruel joke, something more than this plague that had swarmed across the globe, that had driven them from Tunis to England, to holding his sister as she died?

He steeled himself and chanced a look.

_Nile._

She had pushed herself up into a sitting position, was breathing like she had just finished a training session with Yusuf. She reached up to where the zombie had bitten her and Yusuf watched the confusion that crossed her face. Blood still smeared her skin but–

Panic found its grip on her, her chest heaving with each breath and Yusuf moved from behind the tree, fell to his knees beside her. Her head, her skull– It was round, whole, and yet Yusuf knew what he had done. 

He still had blood and bone on his boots. He wanted to throw up again.

"Yusuf, I–" Her eyes darted around and her pulse was hammering against her throat, rabbit-quick. "You have to go. Or– or kill me, I must be one of them, I must."

He pushed her hand away, felt where the zombie had sunk its teeth in. She was unharmed; whole. She had died in his arms and yet she was alive and not at all like the zombies were.

For a brief second, Yusuf closed his eyes. Allah forgive him. This went against everything he had studied, every scrap of common sense that had ever been instilled in him–

"Do you want to kill me?" he asked and he already knew the decision his heart had made.

Nile's eyes were wide. She shook her head.

"Then get up," he said. He helped her, picked up her sword and her musket, sheathed his saif. "We must leave this place. We will hurry back to Longbourn, tell them we were attacked."

Nile looked at her dress. "Yusuf, they will know–" 

"There is not a mark on you," he hissed. "And I do not know how but I do not want to leave you out here, either. Eli, Karima, and Leyla will be training. We can get you cleaned up before anyone sees you and then when they come to check on you, we know there is nothing to find."

Her lip quivered. "What if I am a zombie?" she whispered and he shook his head.

"You are not," he said but it still took a moment of thought before he reached for her, drawing her into a hug and kissing her brow. Blood and bone matted her hair and Yusuf wanted to vomit again, closed his eyes and willed away the feeling. "Come, now. I will protect you, Nile, I promise."

She cried then, but he led her home, fear and wonder dogging him the rest of the way.

***

That night, when all was done – mama's crying, baba's quiet concern, her siblings' confusion – Nile retired to bed early. She had felt Yusuf's eyes on her as she left the room and when she climbed under the sheets, she thought she had never seen him so pale or haggard as when she had opened her eyes again. 

She remembered dying, though she did not remember if he had crushed her skull the way he was supposed to. She thought he had. 

Had she lost his trust through this, this strange thing that had happened to her? Had God decided it was not her time? She shook and when she heard Karima and Leyla come into the room, she pretended to be asleep. Was she to be trusted to be alone with them, or was Yusuf thinking the same thing, was he lying awake listening for any tell-tale sign that she was up and eating her sister's brains?

A sob threatened to bubble up and she squeezed her eyes shut, breathed through it. There was nothing for it now. What had happened had happened – she was as alive as she could be and she would do her best, if she turned out to be a zombie, to take herself away from those she loved before she hurt anyone. She could trust Yusuf to take care of her, she knew that now. Her big brother was the most dependable person in the world.

She fell into a restless sleep only when her sisters' breathing had evened out. She dreamt – she was taller and stronger, riding a chariot, ready for a fierce battle; she was in the hot desert in chainmail, sweat rolling down her back, a sword in her arms that made her muscles burn to lift it; she was in Paris and people were shouting in the streets, grabbing for her–

Faces flashed before her eyes, proud and strong and _familiar_ and, with a gasp that was reminiscent of her resurrection, Nile woke up.

They would come for her and as she pressed a hand against her chest, the thought eased some of the frantic beating of her heart.

No.

They were already on their way.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman brings news: Netherfield has been leased by a young widower, Monsieur le Livre. Nile contemplates leaving Longbourn. Yusuf meets a suspiciously Italian Monsieur le Livre in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days? What is h a p p e n i n g?
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this! Fun fact: I decided to add the final third today so uh I've already diverged from Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I guess.

The silence of the drawing room was comforting. So was the feeling of his gun under his fingertips as he cleaned it and Yusuf focused on his breathing, on removing any imperfections from the metal. 

Nile was seated to his right, legs primly crossed at the ankles, though he could see her foot moving to the beat of a song no one else could hear. Eli was right of her, his brow furrowed as he worked at a particularly stubborn stain.

Even Karima and Leyla were quiet, eyes down as they worked. Yusuf's father was at his desk at the head of the room, pouring over more figures from his business. Yusuf debated the value of offering to help. The family business was not something that had ever come easily to him but he did not want to see his father suffer.

A short shout from outside had them all looking up, though not in alarm. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman swept into the room, holding a letter in her right hand that, even from this distance, Yusuf could see was finely written. He exchanged a look with Nile, who was struggling to suppress a smile. Her mother was a wonderful woman with a tendency for slight dramatics, which Yusuf had told Nile, just once, she had inherited. He had suffered from the comprehensiveness of her training that day.

"What is it, my dear?" his father asked, setting aside his paper with a sigh. She folded herself onto the arm of his chair and Yusuf saw the way he reached for her as she passed him the letter. His father and Nile's mother – Yusuf knew better than to think they had married for love, but after almost two decades they shared an easy affection that warmed his heart.

"Netherfield Park is occupied again," she said, "By a Monsieur le Livre, a young widower of large fortune. Mrs Long says his income is five thousand a year!"

Yusuf did his best to stop the roll of his eyes even as Karima and Leyla burst into whispers opposite him. He looked at Nile. She had gone entirely still, staring ahead as though she were looking through them.

"A Frenchman?" Mr Al-Kaysani huffed. "And how does that concern me, or our children?"

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman took the letter back and waved it at him playfully. "A widower, but still young? Surely he is the perfect man to overlook our sweet Nile's advanced age and offer his hand. He will be at the ball tonight."

Yusuf did not know whether he wanted to laugh more at 'sweet' or 'advanced age'. Something about the sentence appeared to bring his sister back to herself and she _did_ roll her eyes, provoking an involuntary giggle from Karima. 

"Mother, I hardly think his being a widower will be a mark against him," she said sharply. Yusuf tensed as the spectre of grief seized both their parents, suddenly, and when she spoke again, her voice had softened. "I _mean_ ," she continued, "With his substantial income, he will have plenty of prospects to choose from."

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman sat quietly for a moment, her husband's hand tight on her knee, before she nodded. "Of course," she said, "But I mean for him to marry one of you; if not you, then your sisters. Or your brothers. Yusuf, you are certainly more than of an age to have your own family."

Ah. It had been a moment since that had been brought up. Yusuf exchanged a glance with his father and was unsurprised at the concern in his gaze.

"I should like to go to the dance, regardless," Leyla said, her face a little flushed at the thought. "Do you think Monsieur le Livre will be handsome?"

Nile let out a rather unladylike snort. "With his income, Leyla, you would think him handsome if he had half a zombie face."

Leyla pulled a face and as she and Nile descended into a short quarrel, Yusuf felt something in his chest ease. He wanted to marry, of course, it was not about that. He just– He was a romantic fool. He wanted to marry someone he loved. Someone who loved him in return. It was an arrogant desire, with the world the way it was, but one that Yusuf could not shake. If the alternative was to be alone, then so be it. He still had his family.

"Well, that settles it," Mr Al-Kaysani said and Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman folded the letter back up triumphantly. "We shall all attend the dance tonight."

Leyla laughed, hurling another insult at Nile before Nile leapt to her feet, chasing Leyla and a giggling Karima out of the room. Eli shook his head, turning his attention back to his gun and Yusuf stood too, unable to remain in the drawing room a moment longer.

***

They trained in the early afternoon, the cellar being the ideal place for such pursuits, without the risk of exposure to zombies outside of Longbourn's walls. Nile was particularly aggressive, almost on edge, but it made her clumsy and when Yusuf knocked her back into one of the stone columns that made up the foundations of the house, she was slow to get to her feet.

"What ever is the matter?" Yusuf asked. Surely it was not the ball that had brought this on; even before her mother had mentioned Le Livre, they had known about the event for weeks. Leyla and Karima had been chattering about it non-stop.

Nile looked down at her hands. Yusuf had caught her with the blade of his dagger, earlier, but the wound had already healed; now he watched as scratches knitted over until not a mark remained.

She trained rarely with the others, now, preferring only Yusuf's company, and he knew why. Despite their young age, his sisters were vigilant when it came to the matter of zombies – they would notice something was amiss quickly. Eli was more serious still, and more watchful. Yusuf found himself continuously surprised that their younger brother had not already deduced Nile's changed state.

"If I were to leave Longbourn," she said and she was still looking at her hands, "You would let me go?"

"I know mama mentioned Le Livre but, Nile, you do not have to marry him if you do not wish to."

"It is not that." She got to her feet, brushed dust from her clothes. Like him, she was wearing dark-coloured sirwal and a loose tunic, for ease of movement. The other girls, and even Eli, tended to stick to jodhpurs where possible, the tight fit being a good defence against zombies, but he and Nile had frequently been of the same mind.

Except now Yusuf had no insight into what his sister was thinking.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I just find myself thinking often on–" She glanced around quickly but Yusuf knew they were alone. "On what I am. What the limitations are. Can I get sick? Will I age? If I cannot, I will have to leave here, Yusuf. I cannot risk anything happening to any of you because of me."

"It will not come to that." He took two short steps towards her and took her hands in his. "If you like, we could leave together."

"Oh, Yusuf," she said and her eyes were brimming with tears. "I could not–"

The door to the cellar slammed open and Nile jumped back, quickly brushing away her tears. "Nile! Come and get ready!" Karima shouted from the top of the stairs and Yusuf watched as his sister put herself back together. 

"We will talk about this later," Yusuf said as she turned away and she looked back at him, nodded once.

He put away the weapons they had been using and strapped his saif at his hip. There were hours still until the ball and Yusuf felt a sudden surge of restlessness. He could take a short walk through the woods, just to make sure all was well.

His father stopped him at the door, lips thinning when he saw what Yusuf was wearing. "Where are you going?" 

"I will be back in time for the ball, baba," Yusuf replied. "I promise."

"Be back in time to look your best," his father warned. "There will be more than just Monsieur le Livre at this dance tonight."

Yusuf ducked his head in agreement and pushed open the heavy door, stepping out into the afternoon sun.

***

The woods were peaceful today, an incessant chatter of birdsong raising Yusuf's spirits, even if the lack of zombies nearby meant it would be almost impossible for him to expend all of this excess energy before the ball this evening. Still, he kept a hand on the hilt of his saif as he walked, turning the conversation he had just had with Nile over and over in his mind.

It seemed as though she was thinking of leaving of her own accord and Yusuf knew she would not tolerate his leaving with her. If she left the family for marriage that was one thing, something to be celebrated. Leaving without word – because what could she plausibly tell them – was not. Both of them, going together? He did not want to let down their parents but he did not want her to go alone, either. 

Yusuf stopped walking. As he had found often in this past year, when his thoughts wandered to Nile, his feet trod one familiar path. 

Toward Netherfield.

Except, the Netherfield of the previous week was different to the Netherfield of today: Yusuf was certainly not close enough to see the estate but he knew it would be filled with the bustle of Le Livre's servants carrying things to and fro, the urgency of opening a building that had been tainted with destruction and death.

He paused, leaning against a nearby tree. Something about Le Livre had arrested Nile's attention, although Yusuf could not understand why that would be the case. They had never had an opportunity to meet and, even if they had, Nile would have told him.

Wouldn't she?

He heard the faintest rustle of leaves behind him, noted that the birdsong had stopped and, even though his heart was beating a staccato in his chest, Yusuf did not move. If he was being stalked by a zombie it was a quiet, determined one.

His hand was on the hilt of his saif, having never left it. The only question remaining was, would his attacker come from the left or from the right?

He felt a rush of air, a disturbance by his left ear, and his saif was drawn; he raised it just in time to meet the clash of another blade and it took all his strength not to buckle under the force of the blow.

Narrowed eyes met his and when his attacker stepped back, Yusuf did not sheath his weapon. Instead, he took the measure of his opponent, and he was taken in in turn.

The man before him was pale, lean, hair swept back from his face and wearing clothing that suggested a considerable income. Not a soldier then, too wealthy for that, and their location suggested only one remaining possibility, a fact that made Yusuf's stomach sink. 

He could only be Monsieur le Livre.

Le Livre's gaze settled on Yusuf's face and Yusuf fought the heat crawling into his cheeks. "It would appear you are trespassing, sir," Le Livre said and Yusuf frowned at his accent.

He sounded more Italian than French.

"My sincerest apologies for any offense," Yusuf replied. "I merely followed my feet; I did not expect to end up so close to Netherfield."

Le Livre hummed and it did not sound like agreement. Yusuf turned his attention, instead, to the man's weapon. A longsword, almost certainly antique but not the kind of antique Yusuf would expect to see in the hands of most wealthy men. It had the look of a blade that had done battle for centuries and expected to do so for many more to come. 

"You are not dressed for a country walk," Le Livre said.

Yusuf looked down at himself, again fighting against a sudden spike of – vulnerability? Embarrassment? There was no shame in what he was wearing; they were clothes he had worn daily in Tunis and he knew they did not impair his ability to fight zombies. 

"I am dressed for training, sir," Yusuf replied, though anger was beginning to crawl up his spine. "And I should return home, now."

"Training?" There was a spark in Le Livre's eye, an almost imperceptible twitch to his lips. "Show me."

Yusuf flinched back as if struck. He opened his mouth – and then he thought of Nile and her mother, of Karima and Leyla, and slowly closed it again. He would not ruin their chances in society because of his short temper.

Although, with this meeting, he would far prefer none of them enter into a marriage contract with this man.

"En garde, sir," Yusuf said, raising his saif and he was certain he saw Le Livre smile, ever-so-faintly, as he raised his own weapon.

Le Livre moved first, bringing his sword down in an arc and Yusuf met the blow, pushed him off. He was surprised at the man's skill – most Englishmen, or Europeans, even, did not do well against the slightly curved blade of his saif. They were not used to it, but Le Livre moved with an ease that suggested a great deal of practice. 

They spun apart, Yusuf panting, and then came together again, meeting each other blow for blow. Yusuf found himself quite exhilarated; aside from the zombies, he had fought no one but his siblings in a long time, and a living opponent, too, was always much more exciting than one long since dead. The look in Le Livre's eyes seemed to echo Yusuf's thoughts. He watched for any sign of weakness like a wolf might but he seemed to be thrilling in it, too.

Yusuf faltered first. His foot hit a patch of wet leaves, he stumbled, and Le Livre knocked his saif from his hand with a flick of his wrist. Yusuf reached for his weapon but Le Livre was there first, and Yusuf's breath came short and fast as he felt the cold press of steel against his throat.

"You lose, sir," Le Livre said, close enough that he let out a hot puff of breath against Yusuf's cheek. They were closer than was remotely proper and when he laughed, Le Livre startled.

"I do not believe I do."

He looked down and Le Livre followed his gaze, to where Yusuf was holding a dagger against Le Livre's stomach. This close, in anything less than armour, it was easy enough for Yusuf to kill him.

Le Livre's eyes widened; his ears and cheekbones turned pink. Yusuf did not move until Le Livre stepped back, sheathing his sword. 

"You fight well," he said.

Yusuf retrieved his saif and sheathed it but not the dagger. He knew better than to trust a wolf.

"So do you, sir," he replied. "Now, I must be on my way. Good afternoon."

When Yusuf met the path to Longbourn again and looked back, he was sure he could still see Le Livre's silhouette through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments welcome and loved! 💕


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the evening's ball, Yusuf meets the true Monsieur le Livre – and the rather more insulting Signor di Genova.

Upon returning to Longbourn, Yusuf noted the barely-controlled chaos that was his family preparing for a dance and decided to keep his initial meeting with Le Livre to himself. It was not a difficult decision, although he was sure he would confess to Nile later. For now, he wanted to remain silent, turn the entire interaction over in his mind.

Eli was already getting dressed and so Yusuf washed up quickly, trying to will his curls into some semblance of respectability. Usually, he did not make such an effort but something about this afternoon had quickened his pulse, made his breath come a little short when he thought of it.

There was nothing standing in his way, in terms of his own family, should he show interest in Le Livre – and receive interest in return. However, something about Nile's reaction this morning still remained in his mind, another thing for him to turn over as he tried to fit it all together.

Eli was mostly dressed as Yusuf pulled on a more formal pair of sirwal. These were slightly tighter, though still black, embroidered gold around the waist and down the legs. When Eli let out an annoyed huff, Yusuf turned. His brother was fumbling with his cravat, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Let me help," Yusuf said and Eli nodded, dropped his hands to his side. 

Yusuf tied it deftly. It was a skill he had learnt when he had arrived in this country – only in more recent years had he dared to return to his old way of dress outside of their training sessions. He expected to marry no one in Hertfordshire and his clothes were fine enough, besides, so he did not care much for what anyone had to say.

He frowned and Eli tilted his head to one side. "You look worried, brother," he said, his voice quiet, measured as always. 

Yusuf finished tying the cravat and then looked down at himself. "Should I... Do you think I squander our sisters' chances, dressing thusly?"

Eli looked him over – though Yusuf was still only half-dressed – assessing him. After a moment, he shook his head, turning to admire his own reflection.

"If you do, they are men who would never make our sisters happy," Eli said, and then added, with an uncharacteristic display of mirth, "Or they are men who would never be happy with _our_ sisters."

Yusuf smiled at that. He could change; he had worn the same outfit, before, as Eli wore now. Breeches and tights and a waistcoat and the rest... 

"You do not usually concern yourself so much with what you wear," Eli said and his eyes were sharp again. "Has something about that monsieur interested you?"

Yusuf shook his head, hoped that Eli would not see the lie. "Not me," he said. "I simply thought it might be prudent to listen to mama and baba for once." 

Eli raised an eyebrow at that but, to Yusuf's relief, elected not to answer.

***

Mr Al-Kaysani's lips thinned when he saw Yusuf's outfit, the dark brocade tunic, the caftan that fell to his knees. He only deigned to speak, however, when he saw Yusuf's saif at his hip.

"Yusuf. Are you trying to make a spectacle of yourself?"

Nile lifted her head sharply but Leyla and Karima were still wittering away to Eli, showing him their new jewel-coloured dresses; Mr Al-Kaysani had kept back some of the last fabric shipment to have them made.

"I am ensuring I can protect my family, should it come to it," Yusuf replied. His sisters and Eli were all armed, of course, albeit more discreetly. Still, Yusuf did not want to run the risk of what happened to Nile a year ago happening ever again.

He supposed it was then that he had begun forgoing traditional English dress in favour of his old outfits from Tunis. Perhaps he would be terribly out of fashion there, now, but here it made little difference. His sister had died and risen again and something inside of him had wanted to mark that change.

Mr Al-Kaysani opened his mouth again but then his wife was there, ushering them out and into the carriage and there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Yusuf squeezed in next to Nile, who leant against him for a short moment. Her dress was a deep sea-green and it seemed her mother had been at work on her hair; thin braids crossed over each other, piled onto the top of her head.

"You will easily be the most beautiful woman in the room," Yusuf whispered as they got underway and she elbowed him discreetly.

"I do not believe _I_ am the one who has put the most thought into their appearance," she replied haughtily and Yusuf looked down at himself again. He could not see what was so different, so apparent to Nile and Eli, and so he pushed the thought away, turned his head to look out of the carriage window.

By the time the Al-Kaysanis arrived at the ball, it was already well underway, light and music spilling out into the land surrounding the entry hall. Watchful sentries guided their carriage inside and Yusuf climbed out first, when they came to a halt, holding out his hand to help his sisters and stepmother down.

"Keep a sharp eye out for Monsieur le Livre, daughters," she said, striding on ahead and Yusuf tamped down his own smile as Karima and Leyla giggled. He shrugged off his doubts about Le Livre. It would do him well to not think on the man, at least not before his appearance.

Nile slipped her arm in his. "You seem distracted, brother."

They walked into the assembly hall, candles flickering along almost every available surface. Yusuf caught the image of neighbours he recognised, of soldiers and people he had seen in town before.

"I had an interesting walk this afternoon," Yusuf said. He led Nile past Mrs Long and her daughter, who both inclined their heads in a greeting Yusuf returned.

"Oh? Mama did not mention you had a run-in with a zombie."

"Something rather more alive than all that," Yusuf replied. Nile looked up at him, eyes sparking in curiosity, but they had reached their family again and he saw the twist of her lips when she realised he would not continue.

Later. It was a story for later. Besides, Yusuf wanted to see if he could get another measure of Le Livre at this ball. 

They all chatted for a while, Leyla watching the dances enviously; she was not to be asked before Nile and Nile was holding herself back tonight, eyes scanning the room sharply. Yusuf wondered, for a moment, if she had heard a zombie cry, somewhere out there in the night – but she would have drawn her rapier, had that been the case.

"There is the handsome new master of Netherfield," said a voice somewhere to their right and Yusuf was surprised at how quickly he craned to try and see, at how quickly Nile did, too.

He did not recognise the man who had just entered the hall, a woman by his side. He was pale, too, but looked somewhat older than the man Yusuf had fought in the woods. His smile spread easily across his face as he took in the room.

"It was my understanding that Monsieur le Livre was in want of a wife," Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said and Yusuf heard a returning hum.

"That is his sister, Apolline le Livre." She was a tall woman, Yusuf noted, handsome, and she looked around the room as though she owned it – which was not to say she looked down on them; rather, it was as if she knew something they all did not, something ancient and lost to them.

Beside him, Nile let out a breath. 

"They say he inherited nearly a hundred thousand pounds," the woman speaking to his stepmother continued, and Yusuf turned to look at his sister. 

"He would make a magnificent husband, it would seem," he said in an undertone because it appeared that Nile could not take her eyes from him.

After a moment, she seemed to hear. "Do you think that is what I am thinking of?"

"All women must think of marriage," Yusuf said and at her look of outrage, he laughed, adding, "Apparently." 

She growled something under her breath, some promise Yusuf knew full well she would follow through on later, but he found his own attention suddenly caught when his earlier opponent, his mistaken Monsieur le Livre, entered the room.

He greeted the true Monsieur le Livre – and his sister – without a change in his expression, though Le Livre smiled brightly and even Apolline looked somewhat fonder. They spoke for a moment and Yusuf found himself admiring the strong lines of the stranger without conscious thought, catching himself only when Monsieur le Livre looked up and their way.

"Nile, I–" he began, but she seemed as arrested as he had just been; Yusuf dared a look back and Monsieur le Livre's smile was softer now, all of his attention on Yusuf's younger sister. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman had not missed a moment and as Monsieur le Livre and his entourage crossed the dance floor, heading straight for them, she insinuated herself between Yusuf and Nile.

"Monsieur le Livre, pleased to make your acquaintance," he said as he reached them, bowing his head shortly to Nile's mother.

"Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman," she replied. "We've heard so much about you, monsieur." Nile was looking at Monsieur le Livre through her lashes and Yusuf watched her so that he would not look up at his unknown opponent.

"My children," Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said, obviously pleased by the way Le Livre and Nile could not take their eyes from each other. There was some... tension, something Yusuf could not explain. He looked at the other two but noticed Apolline le Livre watching him with sharp eyes and looked away again. "All of impeccable character."

"May I introduce my friend, Signor di Genova. He is just returned from Italy, where he has been fighting against the zombie threat."

Di Genova. Italian. So Yusuf had been right.

He looked at Di Genova, only to find pale green eyes already on him, though he could read no emotion into them. Their gazes held for a beat, before Yusuf tore his away.

"Are you enjoying Hertfordshire, Monsieur le Livre?" Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman asked.

"Very much." He was not looking at Nile now, but Nile had dropped her eyes and the tension in her shoulders was obvious to Yusuf, if nobody else. He stood a little straighter and it took a lot of restraint to keep his hand away from the hilt of his saif.

"I hear the library in Netherfield is one of the finest," Yusuf said, satisfied when all attention snapped away from Nile, when she let out a breath and lifted her head.

"The... library? Is it?" The monsieur seemed almost bewildered and Yusuf merely raised an eyebrow in response. 

It was the sort of thing he had done only once or twice before, usually to men who enjoyed the attention his much younger sisters doted on them, and it had always amused Nile at the time. He looked at her and she did look back but he did not recognise the emotion on her face.

"Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman," Le Livre said, "May I be so bold as to request the next two dances? If you are not otherwise engaged?"

Nile did not even need her mother's excited nudge. "I am not engaged, monsieur," she replied and smiled and it almost reached her eyes.

The monsieur nodded and moved to withdraw, his sister touching his arm briefly, leaning to whisper something in his ear. 

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman had already turned her attention to Signor di Genova, who, Yusuf realised, was looking at him still. "I consider dancing to be the first refinement of polished society. Don't you agree, Signor di Genova?"

Yusuf could not help himself; he thought back to their earlier fight, to the way the blood had rushed under his skin and how, until he had stumbled, they had moved as though they had been fighting each other for years, centuries even.

It was a fleeting, foolish thought, gone as soon as it had arrived, as soon as Di Genova opened his mouth to reply. "Anyone can dance," he said, "Why, I imagine even zombies could do it with some degree of success."

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman startled but chose to laugh, drawing back the attention of the Le Livres. "Please don't forget our next dance, Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman," Monsieur le Livre said and then they were moving, all three of them, sweeping away into the crowds.

***

Sometime later, Yusuf found himself resting against a back wall. Eli was dancing with a nice young woman from town – their first and only dance of the evening, Yusuf noted, though they had been exchanging shy glances for the past two hours – and Karima and Leyla were off making trouble somewhere, which Yusuf also presumed was where their mother had gone to.

Nile was dancing with Le Livre. It was their second dance and she seemed much settled compared with before, although he had not found a chance to speak with her about the whole thing. He was doing his best not to watch Di Genova, the way he stalked around the room. He had danced with no one. Neither had Apolline le Livre, though she had been asked several times. For any other woman, that many rejections would have been considered the height of rudeness and stain an indelible mark on her character. Yusuf suspected that this would not be the case with Mademoiselle le Livre. They wanted to dance with her more than she with them; she represented wealth and class and power in a way most others in this room could only dream of.

He suspected they would simply say she was French and shrug and hope beyond hope she would deign to attend another ball.

Yusuf turned his gaze away. Apolline le Livre and Signor di Genova had met each other in their turns around the room, were standing close by, in fact. He could do better than idly speculate; restlessness itched under his skin, like it had this afternoon and he pushed off from the wall, intending to go outside, take a walk around the perimeter.

He paused when he heard Apolline le Livre speak, Italian falling quickly from her tongue.

"I hate to see you standing around, you really should dance."

"You know I detest it when I am not acquainted with my partner."

Le Livre's eyes sparkled. "And yet you have an acquaintance here, do you not?" 

Di Genova snorted and Yusuf felt his face heat. Di Genova had told her? Told _them_ , maybe, which somehow made him feel a fool. "Sebastien is dancing with the most interesting person in this room." 

"You have no interest in anyone else? Her brother has some spirit. Very agreeable, for you."

"Well, he's tolerable but–"

"Tolerable?"

"Yes, tolerable. But not interesting enough to tempt me. Nor anyone else here, apparently."

He sounded as though he were saying it more to himself than Mademoiselle le Livre but anyway, it was enough. Yusuf felt the prickle of humiliation over his skin and thanked his stars that so few people, here, would even understand the conversation he had overheard. 

He gave them a wide berth, doing his best to school his features, to remind himself that Nile could make any choice that she believed was right for herself and if he caused a scene now, he might just ruin that–

Yusuf rushed past a table too fast and his saif swung out, knocking a jug to the floor. It smashed and he paused, briefly closed his eyes. 

"Oh, that is unfortunate," he heard Apolline le Livre say, in English this time, and it took all his self-control to draw another breath and walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos/comments much appreciated!!


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf goes outside to clear his head. Di Genova saves him from a perceived threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this one ended up short. Oops. If it helps, the next chapter is from the POV of Di Genova and friends – so there should be a lot more going on (and some questions might even be answered)!

Outside, Yusuf stormed away from the building and this time, the blood thumping in his ears had nothing to do with _wonder_ or _interest._

The arrogance of the man! He ran a hand through his hair, unable to care that he was most definitely tugging his curls awry. 

Signor di Genova! Who was he, even, to think he could come to their ball, their community and judge it after mere hours? Yusuf let out a strangled growl and whirled around so he faced the assembly hall again. He was no better than anyone Yusuf had met who possessed wealth and knew it. He thought that alone afforded him personality, instead of the way he chose to interact with other people.

Yusuf attempted to get his tumult of feelings under control. He was entirely aware of his own hurt, too, that he had thought the spark of attraction he had felt that afternoon had been returned. Hurt made him angry and it was not a fair mood to turn on the other guests.

Turning back to the fire he stood next to – one of several that marked the boundary line of the property, before it spilled into the woods – Yusuf sighed, staring into the flames. He was a romantic at heart, a fact he had come to accept when he was barely out of his teens.

It seemed his romantic heart was still as foolish as ever.

"Brooding into the flames is so unlike you, Mr Al-Kaysani," a voice said from behind him and Yusuf did not look up. He turned the image of Di Genova's eyes over in his mind; how, in their fight, they had sparked with something Yusuf had quite clearly mistaken for attraction. How, in the assembly hall, they had betrayed his utter indifference.

All at once, Yusuf registered the words and lifted his head with a rueful smile. "Occasionally, one finds that the situation warrants–"

He paused as he turned, as the woman standing behind him came into view. 

Mrs Featherstone.

The very same Mrs Featherstone of Netherfield, the one whose daughter Yusuf had beheaded not long after the estate had fallen. 

Her face was mottled, decaying; one eyeball was almost entirely exposed in its socket and Yusuf knew if he looked at the whole of her, there would be more evidence she was a zombie, besides. He could not take his eyes from her face. 

"Mrs Featherstone?" he managed to say, although his throat was dry, his tongue lay heavy in his mouth. "You are... You are undead."

She smiled and it pulled at her face rather unnaturally, exposing a rotting hole in her cheek. "Never mind all that," she said. "I've come to tell you someth–"

A shot rang through the air and Mrs Featherstone's head was there – and then it was not. Yusuf did not draw his saif but it was a close thing, even as he knew he should have drawn it as soon as he had heard her voice.

He saw Di Genova approaching, musket in his hand, but Nile rushed past and reached him first, touching his face, then his shoulders as she desperately tried to ensure he was alright.

"What happened, Yusuf?" she asked. His ears were ringing, still, from the shot. 

"I narrowly saved his life," Di Genova said and Yusuf thought, later, he might not have responded had the voice been smug or proud; as with his earlier manner he sounded, instead, indifferent. Shooting a zombie mere feet from Yusuf had affected him no more than his turns around the assembly hall tonight.

"From Mrs Featherstone?" he demanded and Nile ducked out of the way, although she remained by his side.

"From an undead Mrs Featherstone." Both Le Livres were there, too, Yusuf noticed, though he could not tell if the mademoiselle was armed. And his siblings; Karima was eyeing the undead Mrs Featherstone with more than a little alarm even as Eli reached over to Nile.

Yusuf let out an annoyed huff and changed tactics. "I found her to be exceedingly tolerable," he said – but in Italian – and it was gratifying to see the way Di Genova's eyes widened, his cheeks flushing pink. He had not expected to be overheard, then, though that realisation did little to assuage Yusuf's temper.

He turned back to Nile, even as he heard Le Livre congratulate Di Genova on his speedy action. "She was trying to tell me something," he said, he thought, quietly.

"How she intended to serve you up, perhaps," Di Genova said and Monsieur le Livre appeared to laugh despite himself. Apolline le Livre simply watched; she had stepped somewhat further away, closer to the trees. For a moment, Yusuf found himself wanting to warn her not to stray too far but he then felt she was quite aware of what might lay in the darkness.

"Laugh as much as you choose," Yusuf snapped back. "But you will not laugh me out of my opinion." 

He wanted, so much, to get Nile away from there, to discuss with her what he had seen. This was proof – proof that his sister was not a zombie in any traditional sense. Nile was doing the exact opposite of decaying; instead, she rejuvenated in a way Yusuf had never seen. At the same time, it had been a year. A year, and yet Mrs Featherstone had seemed to lose little in the way of her faculties; she had known she was undead, had been fully aware of to whom she spoke.

"She posed no threat," Yusuf said and when Nile's eyes met his, there was something in them he did not recognise. Something, he felt, that related to Monsieur le Livre.

There was no time to dwell on it. A scream from inside had all parties lifting their heads and when they heard, "We're under attack," Nile was running even before Yusuf, though he found himself close on her heels. Eli, Karima and Leyla followed and so the Al-Kaysanis threw themselves into the fray.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastien compliments Nile. Andromache is sick and tired of dealing with these boys. Nicolò does not know what to do about Yus- _Mr Al-Kaysani_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Nicolò's point of view... such an awkward boy! Gonna be some more up-close-and-personal zombie killing in the next chapter. Probably.

People spilled out into the night. Nicolò di Genova watched the Al-Kaysanis run toward the building, toward the danger, and for not the first time in his long life, he hesitated.

It was an infrequent enough occurrence, however, that Sebastien turned his head to look at him. "Nicolò," he said quietly. "We should assist them."

Andromache — _Apolline_ — strode past them without a backward glance. Nicolò swallowed his shame and followed.

They waded into the mass of people, screaming hysterics, and although Nicolò had already noted that the defences in Hertfordshire were nothing compared to the continent, he was still surprised that so few were armed. Andromache had drawn her own sword, a sword it had taken him several hours to convince her would be much more socially acceptable to this crowd than her axe — and it was very much the aim on this mission that they try to stand out in no way that was considered undesirable; she paused in the doorway to the hall proper and Nicolò found himself moving a modicum faster, wanting to see what she saw.

All three of them stood silently and watched the Al-Kaysanis work. The two younger girls, though they had barely reached adulthood, fought together, each adeptly stepping up to face a zombie the other had not seen, their only acknowledgement of each other a quick, silent glance. 

The younger son — Nicolò did not know his given name, but knew he was the son of Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman and her late husband — his face was fixed in intense concentration and he did not waste a movement. A zombie lumbered toward him, at least twice his size, and he removed its arms with short strokes, rendering it less of a threat before he twisted out of the way, spinning to swipe his blade through its neck. A head tumbled to the floor and he moved on.

Nile, for they knew her name, had all been dreaming of her for nigh on a year now, was a born warrior. Nicolò would have said that without the dreams, without knowing exactly who and what she was. She cut down one-two-three and kept moving, all the while keeping half an eye on her siblings. One stumbled too close to her younger brother and she was suddenly there, green skirts swinging out as she kicked it in the chest, knocking it to the marble floor before she stamped on its head.

For a second, Nicolò did not dare lay his eyes on Yusuf Al-Kaysani. 

Yusuf. The only reason they knew his name was because Nile said it so often, dropped it without meaning to. Their dreams had been of her, of her death, of the zombies that plagued this part of the country as they did most other places in the world, now.

But they had also been of him. Her most beloved sibling, a man who presented himself to Nicolò as a complete mystery. 

It had been a long, long time since he had been faced with that.

Yusuf — _Mr Al-Kaysani_ , Nicolò corrected in his head; it would not do to get overly-familiar — fought like he had been drawn straight out of any of the hundreds of battles Nicolò had participated in over the years. He did not wear the placid expressions of his much younger siblings; he had been born into this but he saw it as much more than a dreadful necessity. He was protecting them, all of them, and with a strange and unwelcome start, Nicolò knew that included the three of them, hovering as they were by the doorway. 

"Do not distract him with your stares, Nicolò," Andromache said. "We are not here for him."

Nicolò nodded, though he wanted to say something else, _anything_ else. He had been unfair before; being alive for so long did not necessarily lead to patience and from what he had seen of Nile before their arrival, he had not thought that a drawn-out approach, ingratiating themselves into the lives of her family, would be the most fruitful.

Sebastien — young, heartbroken Sebastien — had argued otherwise. _Stubbornness recognises stubbornness_ , Andromache had replied and Nicolò had thought that the sentiment applied to them all, really; were they not too stubborn to die and remain that way?

Then they had been riding for England and he had decided against arguing

Still, now words pushed against his closed lips and for a man like Nicolò, of few words by his very nature, it was an uncomfortable feeling.

 _I wish to say he looks beautiful,_ he thought, as Yus- Mr Al-Kaysani kicked a zombie and it stumbled into Nile's path. She removed its head, turned to meet another. _He fights like a warrior of old, like he has the security of conviction behind him and is righteous of soul._

Even in the privacy of his own mind, Nicolò hesitated to outright state his appreciation of the strength of Mr Al-Kaysani's arms, the fierce set of his jaw, his eyes, all clear signs that although Mr Al-Kaysani had lost his saif in their bout in the woods, he had most certainly not been fighting for his life.

Sebastien let out a sound beside him and when Nicolò turned his head, he realised Sebastien was looking at him. He looked sad and when he opened his mouth, Nicolò knew he would not like whatever Sebastien thought it prudent to say.

A noise behind them made all three turn; the Al-Kaysanis were almost done with the zombies in the hall. Their parents approached, both also armed, although Nicolò doubted either was as accomplished as their children.

"How are they faring?" the older Mr Al-Kaysani asked.

Andromache looked to Sebastien. He was the one they were to follow, would navigate them through the dark. "Very well, Mr Al-Kaysani," he replied and Nicolò detected that not all of his cheer was false. "Your children are all excellent warriors."

Mr Al-Kaysani nodded. Nicolò was certain the man knew who they were; his wife would have thought fit to inform him. However, he did not seem as eager to meet them as she had been earlier in the evening. 

The noises behind them quieted and then the Al-Kaysanis were approaching, though Yusuf — _smettila, Nicolò_ — hung back, eyes darting over the body parts and viscera that littered the floor.

"Mama, baba, are you well?" one of the younger daughters asked, though she dropped into a shallow curtsey at the sight of Nicolò and the others.

"We are fine, Leyla," Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman replied. "Come, it is time we were back to Longbourn."

"You fight most beautifully, Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman," Sebastien said to Nile, the sly man he was, and Nicolò was torn between watching the way Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman smiled or the way her daughter ducked her head. 

"Let us go," said a voice from the back, impatient — Yusuf — and for one terrible moment, Nicolò wished they were there for him instead, so that he could at least say something of his genuine appreciation.

He looked up, met dark eyes that narrowed before Yusuf turned his head away. "Come, Nile," he said, for she had paused upon hearing Sebastien's words and the parents both said their goodbyes before the entire family headed out into the night. 

Andromache walked out into the centre of the hall, turning in a short circle to look upon the destruction that had just been reaped. Then she looked up at them and whatever she saw on Nicolò's face, it had her sighing and sheathing her sword.

She stalked back across the room and did not even hesitate in her step as she said, "God _damn it_ , Nicolò," before she swept out of the building.

***

The carriage ride back to Netherfield was silent. They had hired a coachman and paid him handsomely for both his skill as a fighter as well as his ability to disregard any conversations he might overhear. 

Sebastien spent much of the ride looking between Nicolò and Andromache. She stared straight ahead. Nicolò kept the curtain minutely open with one finger and looked out into the darkness. He told himself he watched for a threat but knew he did not want to leave himself open for questioning — from either of them.

Arriving at Netherfield, they let themselves in; the staff, few though they were in number, were under instruction not to rouse themselves if they heard them moving around in the night. Without a word, they all entered the second sitting room, which was more comfortable and intimate and, importantly, further away from any other occupied part of the house.

Sebastien sprawled in a velvet armchair, throwing one leg over the side. He had already unfastened his cravat as he walked and now he was rubbing his neck, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. 

Andromache sat on the small chaise lounge opposite him. She unbuckled her sword and then rested her arms along the top, surveying Nicolò for a long moment. He looked flatly back. He did not wish to have this conversation; at least, not until he had time to come to a better understanding of himself.

Eventually, she nodded and her attention came back to Sebastien. "What was your impression of her?" she asked. _What did you tell her_ went unspoken.

"She appears intelligent enough," Sebastien replied and Nicolò settled, leaning back against the wall at a point where he knew he was in both their fields of vision. "Though I believe she is loathed to leave her family behind."

Andromache sighed. "I would expect nothing less. She would put up a fight, then, if we—" 

"Most likely," Sebastien said. He paused. "Although I did not discuss that with her directly, of course."

"You danced with her twice," Nicolò said, hating that his voice came out accusatory. Andromache's lips twitched. She had told him to find a partner, after all. "What _did_ you discuss with her?"

Sebastien shrugged, a loose movement. "I indicated that I was aware of her... condition and that I had more information about it."

"Sebastien," Andromache said, voice low. "Did you, in fact, tell her anything?"

"Perhaps not," he admitted and Andromache groaned. Nicolò rolled his eyes. It was one thing to have Sebastien guiding them through English society; it was another to have Sebastien in charge of anything that required more personal finesse.

Though, after his own behaviour tonight, Nicolò was not sure he would have been a superior choice.

"Write to her," Andromache said shortly. "Or to her parents, I do not care. Invite her here under whatever pretence you like and we will all speak to her. Together."

Sebastien had straightened up at the first hint of that sharp tone and now he nodded, suitably cowed. Nicolò wanted to laugh but then Andromache's eyes flicked to him.

"And you," she said, "You had better decide on _something_ to get her brother out of your system. I do not care if you bed him or not but I cannot have you distracted. We are going to have enough trouble with Nile."

Nicolò nodded and both he and Sebastien were silent as Andromache told them she was going to bed. The door closed behind her and Sebastien got to his feet. "I need some wine."

He trailed out of the room and Nicolò, left alone, rubbed a hand over his face. He could not get Yusuf Al-Kaysani's fierce expression out of his mind and knew he would not sleep for a while yet.

Coming to a decision, he too left the room. Immortal or not, able to heal or not, enough training would eventually tire his mind, take his focus away from a man he had no business getting to know further.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf is forced to confront his reaction to Di Genova the night before. Nile is invited to Netherfield for tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was going to be a lot longer but 1) i wanted to post it like now and 2) it ends in such a fun place, don't you think?
> 
> ALSO i found out that supposedly netherfield and longbourn are only three miles away from each other? THREE??? and they're freaking out in that film that lizzy has done, like, an hour's worth of walking. incredible.
> 
> anyway, happy weekend!

The next morning found Yusuf awake with the sun and when he realised he had dreamt of pale green eyes, instead of his usual nightmare – Nile bleeding out in the woods – he all but leapt out of bed, beginning his morning ablutions with unusual vigour. For his part, Eli lifted his head once and then grumbled to himself, turning over to fall back asleep.

Yusuf dressed in his training clothes and let himself down into the cellar. He was not hungry; his insides churned at every thought of Signor di Genova and so he threw himself into practising, slicing his saif through the air slowly at first, speeding with each movement. It was not long before sweat slid down his back but he did not, _could not_ , stop – not until he had exorcised the ghost of Di Genova’s eyes completely.

He turned, seeing the flash of movement a second too late. Nile kicked him in the leg and he let out a grunt, putting his saif back in its sheath.

“Sister,” he said. She was unarmed. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Yusuf,” Nile said in a sing-song voice. “Sleep poorly, did you?”

He moved, aiming a strike at her ribs that she blocked, dodging the one she aimed for his temple. Nile had done her initial training in China, before her father had died, before her mother had been unable to afford more and had fetched her back again. It was how her mother and his father had met; Yusuf had been a boy, still, but at fourteen he had been fully-trained, and so the then Mrs Freeman, recently widowed, had requested that someone in the household train her children.

Nile had been so small, back then.

“I slept well,” Yusuf said – a lie. She nodded; she recognised it as one. “And you?”

In answer, she came at him again, speed ever on her side, and he did his best to fend off the small, quick jabs – with so much _strength_ behind them – but one caught him in the side and he staggered back to catch his breath.

“Well enough,” Nile replied. “I certainly did _not_ dream of a mysterious Italian of great wealth and terrible temperament.”

Yusuf growled out something – even he was not sure, exactly, what he said – and when he lunged for Nile, she ducked; his fist hit one of the support columns and he ground his teeth against the pain.

“I did _not–_ ”

“And yet your sleep was consistently disturbed and you woke at the crack of dawn,” said a voice behind him. Yusuf turned. Eli stood there, his knees already bent, shoulders loose. Yusuf swung at him but he was almost as fast as Nile and he ducked, catching Yusuf in the ribs with his elbow. Yusuf blocked a blow aiming for his face but Eli pushed with his other arm, his full strength – and he was not a small man, now full-grown – and Yusuf fell back into the support column behind him hard enough to make the ceiling above shudder in protest.

“I do not remember what I dreamt of,” Yusuf said. He took a moment, both to catch his breath and to watch them. He had trained them both and sometimes they moved like they were of one mind – if they had decided to join forces against him, then he was done for.

“Really, Yusuf,” Nile said, tilting her head to one side. They had not had time to speak the night before and he was hoping to find it today, to discuss Monsieur le Livre and Mrs Featherstone and maybe…

Maybe.

“Why would I dream of such an arrogant fool?”

Eli and Nile exchanged a look. “I saw how you liked him when he first walked into the dance,” Nile said.

Yusuf pushed down an irrational flare of temper. She had been staring at Monsieur le Livre, he had thought.

“I hated him–”

“You liked him!”

Yusuf was the first to break, catching his sister by the arm and pushing her against another column. But Eli caught him around the waist, and Yusuf had to admit to their fighting style being closer to a brawl than he knew most of society would like.

He landed on his back on the floor and Nile and Eli peered down at him.

“Admit you find him handsome,” Nile said and he felt it was supposed to come out in a more jovial tone than she managed.

“Handsome?” Yusuf said. He got to his feet and they let him, backing up a little. “He acts as if he were above our company and above being pitied. If his looks are a reflection of within, then I do therefore consider Signor di Genova to be a very ill-looking man.”

Nile rolled her eyes. Eli snickered.

A blow from behind; Yusuf grabbed for the source without looking, pulling Leyla around in front of him. He knew better than to hesitate and avoided Karima’s incoming blow, landing a kick that, while not full-force, still sent her sprawling. She sprung to her feet again and Leyla whirled around.

“You will not suck us down,” she said. “The Le Livres are the epitome of polite society.”

Nile laughed somewhere from the back of the cellar and Yusuf caught Leyla’s clumsy blow, sending her away in a move that was almost a spin. “Never,” he said, “Have I encountered a man so consumed by his own pride.”

Eli caught Yusuf from behind, burly arms wrapping around his chest and Yusuf allowed himself to be lifted, tried to regain his equilibrium. “One cannot wonder that so very fine a man with everything in his favour should think highly of himself,” he said and Yusuf reached back, not so caught up in his own pride that he could not grab his brother by the ears.

Eli let out a surprised yelp and let go; Yusuf turned and jabbed him in the stomach, making his brother double over to catch his breath.

“Or: he has a right to be proud,” Karima said. She had picked up a dagger, slashed the blade near his face and Yusuf grabbed her arm, twisted it and the weapon fell to the floor.

“I can think easily of his pride, if he had not mortified mine.”

She met his eyes and frowned and then Leyla leapt onto his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. She had a tight grip on his throat – though she knew better than to choke him to the point of passing out. It had taken her some time to learn that.

Preoccupied with trying to remove Leyla from his person, Yusuf almost did not hear Eli’s next words.

“Pride is a very common failing, I believe. It relates more to our opinion of ourselves, as opposed to vanity, which is what others think of us.”

Yusuf prised Leyla from his back as he heard someone shouting Nile from upstairs. Karima shrieked when he came after her. “He saved you from a zombie, Yusuf!”

“Mrs Featherstone was quite civilised.” Their training had dissolved into a game, now; though Yusuf realised it had been all along. He caught up to Karima, grabbing her around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder.

“Yield,” he said and she kicked her legs even as Leyla dissolved into helpless laughter.

“Never!”

“She was a zombie, Yusuf,” Eli said almost softly. “Thank goodness he was there.”

Yusuf sighed and put his sister down; she tipped into him and her eyes were bright with laughter. He _should_ have drawn his saif, he knew that.

Before he could reply, Nile came running back down into the cellar. “The Le Livres have invited me to tea.”

***

Her mother had her ready to go in under an hour and when she was sitting on horseback, Nile looked over her family fondly. She knew everything was about to change. Her mother knew it, too; albeit for an entirely different reason.

Yusuf’s expression was almost inscrutable to her and, had he ever looked like that before? Perhaps, when they had first met and she had been a child who had just lost her father, small and scared of everything around her. Now, they were supposed to know each other.

When had that changed?

He smiled at her, then, even as her mother told her to hurry, told her to make sure to show even more affection than she felt. Yusuf stepped forward and ran his fingers over the horse’s muzzle. She pushed into his hand, as complacent around him as any animal Nile had ever seen.

“Go quickly now,” he said and his voice was soft, like she might not come back. “The zombies spring easily from the wet earth.”

She rode. She rode and her breath caught in her chest and there was a point where she did not know if she was crying, heaving sobs that might destroy her, or if that was just the wind whistling in her ears.

Halfway there, she pulled the horse to a halt and attempted to bring her emotions under control. Her conversation with Monsieur le Livre the night before had been a series of half-revealed truths, nothing of substance, and she had delighted in teasing Yusuf this morning because his clear annoyance at the Signor di Genova had been a welcome distraction to the gnawing, uncomfortable feeling behind her ribs.

“We are like you,” he had said, a snatched whisper as they came close together in the course of the dance. She had not asked him for more information, had not asked what he meant.

She had feared the answer.

Beneath her, the horse shifted, and Nile pulled on the reigns as the zombie charged out of the patch of trees. It did not matter; the horse reared back anyway and she tumbled to the ground with a wince as her wrist broke on impact. Small pains like that were almost negligible now and by the time she drew her sword, the break had already healed.

The zombie had, in life, been a man of rather more robust proportions than Nile was and she knew better than to let it get under her guard. She moved quickly, slicing her sword along the muscle of its shoulder as she got in closer, close enough to cut along its throat. It fell to the ground and she lifted her skirts, crushing its skull beneath her boot.

Nile lifted her head, eyes sharp. Just the one?

No.

She heard movement in the trees and saw another. Female, and holding–

Nile felt a sudden desire to vomit. It was holding a babe in its arms, mewling, as undead as it was. As she watched, the undead woman put its finger to its lips and then turned its head, walking back into the trees.

She should chase it. Chase it and destroy it – that was her mission.

She sucked in one deep breath and then another. The heavens opened and only after standing in the rain for a few moments, reassuring herself that the zombie was not coming back, did she move.

***

Nile arrived at Netherfield on time, despite the attack, despite the fact that her thoughts had slowed her feet along the way. She was greeted at the door, where she was dripping nervously, by an officious butler who seemed disgruntled by her simply by the nature of his own being rather than by anything she had particularly done.

“Mademoiselle le Livre has requested that you take a moment to refresh yourself before joining them in the salon, Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman,” he said. “This way.”

He led her to one of the many bedrooms in Netherfield and Nile could not help herself; despite the nervousness she felt at this meeting, despite how unsettled she was by what she had seen on the way, she was awed by the beauty of this place. She paused at the doorway to the bedroom, only then turning back to the butler.

“There are no reinforcements, outside,” she said.

“We are protected well enough from within.”

“And no one was here to check if I had been bitten.”

At that, the butler did appear to look at her more sharply for a moment – but only a moment. “Mademoiselle le Livre said that would not be necessary,” he said, and then he was walking away.

Nile changed quickly, drying off as best she could and thankful, too, that she had not had time to take her hair out of its braids before the letter from Monsieur le Livre had arrived. It meant her hair was wet, of course, but manageable; she did not need to feel any more intimidated than she already did.

A cotton day dress was laid out for her, in the delicate shade of lilac she preferred. She put it on, changed into the shoes that had been left by the side of the bed and did not, for a moment, think about the fact that everything was the right size.

Still, she strapped a dagger to her thigh and her sword to her waist before she left the room.

The butler waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, pointing her down one of Netherfield’s long corridors. “The salon is at the end,” he said and then seemed to vanish again. Nile swallowed, clenching and unclenching her fists. Oh, how she _wished_ Yusuf was with her; she had been half-tempted to beg mama to let him come, to argue that it could be seen as terribly inappropriate to come alone, Mademoiselle le Livre’s presence aside, and that he had seemed somewhat interested in Signor di Genova, besides.

Except, as Nile had become increasingly aware in the last year, it was perhaps her turn to protect her older brother. Whatever it was, whatever its purpose, her ability to be impervious to harm was something she could _use._

She imagined him there, for a moment, smiled as she thought of the dark, fierce way he’d looked at Signor di Genova last night, and walked down the corridor.

It was clear when she reached the room that they had all been expecting her for some time. Monsieur le Livre leapt up from his seat, dropping into a neat bow; Signor di Genova did similar, though with far less enthusiasm.

Mademoiselle le Livre did not move from her seat on the chaise lounge; instead, she eyed Nile for a moment and when she saw the sword at Nile’s waist, she smiled.

“What a pleasure to have you here, Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman,” Monsieur le Livre said, “I hope you were not too caught out by the rain.”

He was pretty, she thought, and if these had been different circumstances, she could have been absolutely entranced by him. As it was – she had dreamt of him for a year. Of all of them. She had lain awake last night and gone through every image of them she could remember, coming to the conclusion that where they went, danger followed.

She closed the door. When she looked back, they all seemed surprised and that was enough to get her back on her right footing.

“Call me Nile, Sebastien,” she said. Behind him, Andromache let out a bark of a laugh. “And, please, if you could tell me what _exactly_ is going on, I would very much appreciate it.”


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nile gets some answers. Yusuf visits Netherfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids, ever wanted to find out how much you rely on italics? try writing a fic and adding the tags manually!
> 
> also i think this thing may well end up being longer than 20 chapters (you may have noticed i added the slow burn tag and uh that's why). no promises though 😏

“What do you already know?” Andromache asked as Monsieur le Livre – _Sebastien_ le Livre – sat back down again. Signor di Genova had taken up a place against the wall and Nile knew it was to free up a seat, but she could not bring herself to move. 

They were just as she had dreamt them; looking to Andromache to take charge, waiting for her assessment.

“I know your names,” Nile said, “I think I saw you, travelling across Europe. You had been… when I died, you were in Asia.”

Andromache nodded. “Good. And you know what you are?”

“I cannot die.”

“You cannot _remain_ dead,” Signor di Genova corrected quietly. Nile met his pale eyes. _Nicolò_ , she thought, but using that name so freely felt as though she was intruding on something. She did not like that she knew his name before Yusuf did. 

“No,” she said, agreeing. “I come back.”

“How many times have you died, now?” Sebastien asked.

Nile shifted uncomfortably, looking around the room. Her eye caught on a painting and she examined it so as to not watch their expressions. “A few,” she admitted suddenly, all in a rush. “Twenty, I think? I try not to keep track.”

“Twenty?” Andromache asked. “Are you courting danger or are you just a fool?”

Nile whipped back around to face her. “I have a family to protect,” she said and itched to draw her sword. “If I can face a horde and come out of it alive, then why would I not attempt to hunt them down?”

“What if you were seen?”

“I was not.”

Sebastien sighed and he and Di Genova exchanged a look. Andromache had still not risen to her feet but Nile thought it was a near thing.

“You have to understand, Miss– Nile,” Sebastien said, “It is more than just your safety we are concerned with.”

“You are concerned with yourselves,” Nile said, voice flat. She had come to a decision, she realised, and it was enough to have her lifting her chin. “Then I would recommend that you all swiftly depart from Hertfordshire. I have no intention of leaving here.”

_That_ did anger Andromache; she leapt to her feet, stalked over to Nile like the tigers Nile had seen in Hunan. “You foolish girl. What do you expect to do when they realise you do not age? When one of them sees you die?”

Nile sucked in a breath and something about her expression was enough to halt Andromache where she stood. 

“Who knows?” Sebastien asked. Di Genova pushed off from the wall and Nile felt almost like he was hovering at her back.

“I–” Oh, Nile did feel a fool now and, looking at them with new eyes, fear twisted in her belly. If she did not tell them who, then what would they do to her? To her family? She could not stand against all three of them, she realised – she could see the age in them now, the bonds that tied them together.

“Yusuf,” she said and heard Di Genova suck in a sharp breath behind her. “Yusuf knows because Yusuf destroyed me.” 

***

When the missive came, it was still raining, storm clouds rolling in over the hills. The horse had appeared, trembling, an hour or so before, and Yusuf had enough to manage trying to calm it; he had ignored his stepmother’s worried cries for Nile, had let the others soothe her. 

There was no blood on the animal and it was not as though the zombies could kill her, besides.

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman called them all into the sitting room when she received the letter from Netherfield; Yusuf stood near the door. He was soaked to the bone, having been out repairing some of Longbourn’s defences after seeing to the horse, and did not particularly wish to drip all over the rugs.

“Nile made it safely to Netherfield,” Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said, to great relief all round, and then, “However, Monsieur le Livre writes that she has caught a fever and requests that you travel to Netherfield to accompany her, Yusuf.”

Yusuf looked up sharply at that. It was an unusual request and he immediately felt a curl of suspicion. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman seemed to be of a similar mind; she frowned at the words, reading them again to herself.

“I am already drenched,” Yusuf said, to assuage her more than anything else. “It makes good sense for me to go.”

“Quite right,” his father said from behind his desk. “Ride out now, before it gets dark.”

Yusuf shook his head. “The horse has been scared enough for one day. I shall walk. It will not take long.”

His father pulled a face at that but Yusuf bowed his head in farewell and left the room before anyone else could put up an argument. 

He pulled on a coat and then rushed down to the cellar, wanting to make sure he was fully armed before he left for Netherfield. He and Nile had not spoken much about her ability, beyond the fact that her injuries healed and she did not stay dead, but he had thought that would preclude becoming ill, also. 

In which case, it meant the letter was a ruse – perhaps he was even walking into a trap.

If that was true then Yusuf would do all he could to free his sister; though he could not figure out why the Le Livres and Di Genova would be trying to trap _him_.

He walked to Netherfield with some haste and at least the constant threat of zombies, even more bountiful in this weather, was enough to keep him from dwelling on what might await him at the estate. It was still raining when he arrived, enough that water was running down his face, and he did his best to shake off the excess by the door, though there was no spot of his clothing dry enough to make him look presentable.

He knocked and a butler answered; a butler who looked him up and down and almost seemed to sigh in annoyance. “Mademoiselle le Livre has requested–”

Yusuf did not push past him but it was a near thing. Still, he could not help but interrupt. “Where is my sister?”

“Mr Al-Kaysani,” a voice said, an _Italian_ voice, and Yusuf breathed out so as not to clench his jaw painfully. “I understand you wish to see your sister is well. This way, please.”

The butler stepped back with some hesitation, and Yusuf did not look at him as he followed Di Genova down the corridor. Di Genova did not speak and Yusuf could hear only their footsteps, the harsh pull of his own breath, droplets of water hitting the marble floor around him.

They reached a closed door and Di Genova stopped, turned to look at him. Looked him over _entirely_ , in fact, his expression betraying nothing and Yusuf’s temper flared again.

“Did you walk all the way here?”

_“Yes.”_

“I can assure you, your sister is fine.” So, he was not pretending Nile had a fever, then, which set all of Yusuf’s nerves on edge.

“I would rather see with my own eyes.”

He nodded faintly and opened the door. Yusuf noticed first that the salon was warm; he had pushed all thoughts of himself aside in his haste to get to Nile. And then he saw her, perched on an armchair. Monsieur le Livre stood as Yusuf and Di Genova entered, eyes wide; across from him, Mademoiselle le Livre did not move.

“Nile,” Yusuf said and she was on her feet, decorum be damned; when she threw her arms around his neck, he let out a relieved breath. “They said you…”

“I’m fine,” she said in Arabic, as though she knew it was the only thing that would get through to him, before switching back to English again. “They merely wish to speak with you. I _said_ there were other ways of phrasing it–” At this, she shot Monsieur le Livre a glare and he smiled sheepishly, “But they were adamant.”

Yusuf looked around at the four of them again. He felt as though he were missing a large piece of an even larger puzzle and when he started shivering, Nile rubbed his arm. “Worrying about me,” she scolded. “You will catch your death.”

He looked at her then, the expressions around him seeming to sharpen, and she sighed.

“So, he does know,” Mademoiselle le Livre said. 

They _couldn’t–_

“What are you talking about?” he asked and he was a good liar when he needed to be, he knew that; but she merely smiled.

“I told them, Yusuf,” Nile said quietly and Yusuf did not know what to think. “Rather, they already knew.” 

“I– How–”

“We know because Nile is much the same as we are,” Signor di Genova said.

Yusuf’s head shot up and he could not see a trace of a lie on Di Genova’s face; besides, the way that Mademoiselle le Livre exclaimed, “Nicolò!” all but confirmed it. 

“You all cannot…”

“We do not stay dead,” Monsieur le Livre said and Yusuf took a moment, let that truth settle in alongside everything he had observed in his sister over the last year.

“All you need to know is this,” Mademoiselle le Livre said, “We intend to take Nile with us when we leave this place. We do not intend to leave knowledge of our true selves behind.”

Yusuf ignored the thinly-veiled threat. If they killed him, then they killed him; there were three of them, after all, and for all that Di Genova had bested him in the woods, he felt that the mademoiselle was even more deadly.

“You wish to leave?” he asked Nile. 

“I had actually declined the kind offer,” Nile said through gritted teeth; ever the polite one, his sister. “I will leave when I am ready but not before.”

Mademoiselle le Livre opened her mouth again, but the monsieur got there first. “Might I suggest we all take a break from this conversation for a moment? Mr Al-Kaysani, you really should change out of your wet clothes; Di Genova, could you possibly show him to the blue room? Nile, please feel free to accompany your brother.”

He said it all with a placid smile and somehow that had Yusuf wanting to draw his weapon, though when he felt Di Genova’s eyes on him, he knew better than to try. Still, Di Genova nodded, opening the door and gesturing that the two should walk before him. Yusuf did not like that, either, but Nile stayed by his side, though he noticed that she pushed him slightly ahead.

“Why did you tell them that I knew?” Yusuf asked in Arabic. After closing the door behind them, Di Genova had gone a little way ahead, although he kept looking back at them like they might just run off out into the storm.

“Yusuf, please,” Nile replied. “You do not know who is listening.”

Yusuf snorted. He was tired of pleasantries and watching his behaviour. They were – whether intentionally or not – trying to hurt his family. “You think _he_ understands _us?”_

“I do,” Di Genova said. He looked back at them, met Yusuf’s eyes. “Albeit, the tongue I know is…” He searched for his words. “Old-fashioned. Your sister is right. You do not know what we know.”

The infuriating man! He looked almost smug as he turned away and Nile pulled on Yusuf’s arm, trying to distract him from doing anything rash, no doubt.

Still, they reached the room without incident and Yusuf did not stop to thank Di Genova when he pushed open the door; that was left to Nile, who murmured, “Grazie, Nicolò,” and closed the door behind them. 

Yusuf stopped in the centre of the room. When he turned around, Nile was leaning against the door. She had, he noticed, her sword still strapped to her waist.

Good to see she had not lost all sense.

“Why did you tell them?” he asked.

“About you?”

“About yourself, Nile. It does not matter that they are the same; if they know–”

She pushed off from the door with a sigh. “Yusuf, they already knew. I did not tell you, well, because I did not know what it all meant, but I have been dreaming of them all this year. Ever since I–”

Another shiver wracked Yusuf’s body and then she was there, tugging at his coat. “Come now, brother. I will not have you dying of a fever before we have a chance to speak on this.”

He changed behind the screen in the corner, and any appreciation he felt at finding warmed towels and clothes that fit was swiftly soured when he remembered what Apolline le Livre had said. _We intend to take Nile with us…_

His mood was, therefore, not much improved when he emerged from behind the screen again, only to find Nile sitting in the centre of the bed, leafing through a book. 

“Feeling at home here?” he said, a petty, mean thing, and Nile schooled the initial hurt reaction on her face into one of faint annoyance.

“And you told me once _I_ had inherited mama’s penchant for the dramatic,” she replied. “Come sit with me.”

Yusuf looked at her and his heart squeezed in his chest. She was no child, he knew that; she was, he had to admit, a woman who should have been long-since wed, should have been training her own children to become warriors. And yet, in that moment, he _saw_ it.

Chastised, he sat on the bed with her and she curled around to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her hair was still damp, soaking through his shirt, but he did not dare move her.

“Yusuf, I truly do not wish to leave. But if they insist–”

“We can fight them.”

“I will not risk you – any of you – for that.” The tone in her voice was final. Yusuf understood. If she was to live for… he did not know how long, then losing them early, unnecessarily– He could see her logic but, too, saw it as a necessary action, at least on his own part.

“Then what? They cannot think they can simply not allow you back home? Baba and mama would come and look for you.”

“I know,” Nile replied. “I think they have a plan to that effect.”

“Monsieur le Livre.”

Nile hummed her agreement. He could feel the way she was leaning on him now and he wondered if she had been scared before, when they had told her she was the same way they were. She was tired, he was sure of that, almost all the fight gone out of her.

“Will they take you far away?” he asked. If she remained nearby, even married to Le Livre – even if Yusuf had to spend time with that insufferable Di Genova every time he wanted to see his sister, he thought he might manage.

“I think so,” Nile said. “Or people would see. They would know we do not age.”

Yusuf nodded and tears prickled hot at the back of his eyes. “Then, if you want this, you should take it.”

At that, she managed a laugh, though she did not lift her head. “Yusuf. I have, quite literally, all the time in the world left to me. Why would I spend any of that time without my family if I did not have to?”

He pressed his face into her hair at that, not trusting himself to speak, and they remained that way until her breathing deepened in sleep.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf explores Netherfield. Di Genova asks tricky questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out that i, personally, find it very difficult to write rude!nicolo (towards yusuf, at least) so uh here's an attempt i guess

After sitting in the blue room for an hour, Nile sleeping soundly on the bed beside him, Yusuf pulled himself together. He was hungry and he could not hide in here like a child. If these people were to end up as his sister’s only companions, then the least he could do was become acquainted with them himself.

He ventured out of the room, finding the butler quite by accident. “Mr Al-Kaysani,” he said, dropping his head into a bow and Yusuf noted that he seemed mildly less disgruntled than he had earlier in the afternoon. 

“I wished to enquire whether there was somewhere I could perhaps find something to eat?” 

“Of course, sir. This way.” 

Yusuf followed the butler through the halls, doing his best to keep track of where they were going. He had been to Netherfield but once before, for a ball Mrs Featherstone had thrown, and that had required a much less extensive journey around the property. When they reached a dining room, Yusuf shook his head. 

“I do not require an entire meal. Just something small. For my sister, too.” He ran a hand through his hair. He was tired too, of course, but could not think of sleeping while Nile did, could not leave her entirely unprotected. “I do not know if she ate before I arrived?”

“Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman had tea with Monsieur and Mademoiselle le Livre and Signor di Genova,” the butler said and something in his expression seemed to have softened. “Please, sir, sit. I will send one of the maids with a plate for you.”

Yusuf did as he was bid; he had no intention of rushing into Netherfield’s kitchens and causing a racket, but he did not wish to sit through an entire meal on his own, either. The maid did not take long. She was young and kept her eyes down politely as she set the plate in front of him, but Yusuf saw her blush when he thanked her.

He was grateful to see he had been served fish, rather than meat, though he did not know if that was the butler’s keen eye or a simple coincidence. Either way, he ate, and when he had finished, he felt more ready to find the Le Livres. 

The butler was waiting outside of the dining room and Yusuf followed him to a different sitting room, more spacious, designed for hosting guests. Monsieur le Livre was on his feet again as Yusuf entered; as before, the mademoiselle did not move and Signor di Genova was already standing, drinking what Yusuf suspected was brandy by the fire.

“Mr Al-Kaysani,” Monsieur le Livre said and Yusuf inclined his head in reply. There were bookshelves down one wall and the other was made of two large glass doors, leading out into the gardens. Yusuf found himself surprised that they had not been reinforced since Mrs Featherstone’s leaving, but then he looked at his hosts again and re-evaluated.

What need did they have for reinforcements?

“How is she?” Monsieur le Livre asked and Yusuf turned his attention back to him.

“She is fast asleep.”

“Good. That is… good. She has had a most exciting day.”

Yusuf nodded his agreement but could not answer that. Eventful, yes. Exciting? That seemed generous.

“Would you like to join us?” Monsieur le Livre asked, gesturing between himself and the mademoiselle. They were playing some kind of card game but Yusuf did not want to let his guard down. He was no youth and he could clearly see the monsieur’s approach. Perhaps if they befriended Yusuf, he would assist them in their attempt to abscond with his sister. Yusuf wanted to ensure that there would be someone looking out for her, once he was gone, but that did not mean he had to be any more than civil with them.

He shook his head. “Thank you but I’ll amuse myself with a book.” What was his life coming to, that he was still young but thinking of who would care for his sister hundreds of years from now? He approached the bookshelf but scanned the titles without reading them.

“You prefer reading to playing cards?” Mademoiselle le Livre asked. Yusuf could not decipher her tone.

“I prefer a great many things to cards, Mademoiselle le Livre,” he replied and chose a book at random. 

Signor di Genova still stood near the fire and as Yusuf sat on a nearby couch, he sensed the man’s eyes on him. 

“You didn’t train in Japan,” Signor di Genova said after Yusuf had opened the book. The room went still around him.

Yusuf looked up at him. Firelight shaped his face into something timeless, ancient; the way he held his glass so casually, had his hip cocked to balance his posture, dripped confidence and power. He wondered, briefly, what Di Genova saw when he looked back at him.

“No. I completed much of my training in Tunis, before I arrived in England. Between there and here, I have learnt how to endure all manner of discomfort.” 

Monsieur le Livre lifted his head. “May I enquire as to the nature of this discomfort?” 

Yusuf could not help himself. Sometimes, words came forth without conscious thought; kind words to his family, sharp words to strangers he felt had committed an injustice.

What was a greater injustice than trying to take his sister?

“I would _much_ rather give you a demonstration.”

Mademoiselle le Livre was suddenly staring intently at her cards. Yusuf was almost certain Di Genova had let out a rush of breath – either a gasp or a laugh, he could not tell – but he refused to lower his gaze until Monsieur le Livre did.

“Enjoy the book,” he said and Yusuf settled back in his seat. He had picked up some historical tome, a history of England before the zombie arrival, and had he even wished to read it, he knew it would be impossible with the way he could feel Di Genova’s eyes on him. 

He risked a look up; their gazes met. “May I help you, signor?” 

“You trained Ni– your sister.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes. I am responsible for training all of my siblings.” He did not wish to share but it seemed pertinent, “But Nile did complete the very first part of her training in China.”

Di Genova nodded. “And she is the only one to have succumbed?”

Yusuf closed the book. “Excuse me?”

“She is the only one of your siblings to have been killed by a zombie?”

The game of cards in the corner had gone silent again but Yusuf did not look at them. What was this, some way to prove that Nile _should_ go with them? He had known, that day, that he had failed her and he carried that failure with him still; regardless of Nile’s ability to heal, Yusuf had _failed._ He did not need that fact to be thrown in his face by a stranger.

He opened his mouth just as light spilled into the room from the corridor. Nile stood there and Yusuf got to his feet at the same time as Monsieur le Livre, his face burning. 

“Miss Al-Kaysani-Freeman,” Monsieur le Livre said, after a quick look at Yusuf. “Would you like to play cards?”

Nile looked at him too, her lips pursing in that way that meant she saw his mood and they would discuss it later. Yusuf did not allow that thought to quench his anger. 

“Of course,” she said. She brushed her hand against Yusuf’s arm as she passed, enough weight behind the touch that he felt it and knew what she was saying. 

She was here. She was alive and well and Yusuf knew, objectively, that the person in this room in the most danger was him. He was in the lion’s den, so to speak, acting as though he were one of them.

Nile took a seat at the table and Yusuf watched as she listened intently to the explanation of the game, as Monsieur le Livre dealt the cards and the mademoiselle made a quiet joke at his expense. 

He watched as Nile smiled, small and tentative but there all the same.

Grief welled up in his chest and he lay the book carefully on a side table. Di Genova was still watching him and Yusuf could read nothing in the man’s face. 

“Excuse me,” he murmured.

He all but fled the room, wandering corridors on the ground floor until he found himself at another set of those large glass doors. Netherfield’s gardens were in a state of disrepair, although it seemed as though some work had been done since the arrival of the Le Livres. Yusuf tried the door without thinking about it; when it swung open, he looked around guiltily before stepping out into the night.

The moon was full, allowing him enough light to see by and Yusuf closed the door again behind him before he walked away from the manor. He did not dare go too far; he was already angry and could not imagine embarrassing himself by having Di Genova _save_ him from yet another zombie. Still, the air was pleasant after the storm, cooler than the last few days had been. 

After a few seconds of thought, Yusuf drew his saif. He had trained this morning, of course, had spent the day building up Longbourn’s defences and then walking here, but training meant more than improving the discipline of his body. He had to also improve the discipline of his mind.

He threw himself into one sequence, then the next, making no attempt to pause between them. It was easier this way, easier to firmly push Di Genova’s words out of his head, easier to ignore the way his own breath had caught, just for a second, upon seeing Di Genova’s features in the firelight.

A noise behind him had Yusuf turning though he did not lower his saif. The door he had exited through was open again and Yusuf fancied he saw Di Genova walking back down the corridor, away.

He let out a frustrated snarl and raised his saif. He would start at the beginning again, then.

***

The morning saw Yusuf waking slowly, only to find Nile was already in the blue room, reading a book in the armchair. Yusuf blinked groggily, lifted his head. 

“This seems inappropriate.”

Nile snorted. “Are _you_ going to lecture me about that?”

He remembered his behaviour the night before and shook his head. It had been rude of him to leave without a proper explanation; not to mention the fact that he had returned to the manor some time after everyone else had retired, after he had felt unable to lift his saif again.

“No,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

“We are going to breakfast with our hosts and then we are returning to Longbourn,” Nile said. “Mama already sent word she is coming. We will have to pretend I am sick.”

“And the Le Livres, they are…?”

“They will not stop me,” Nile said, finally looking up from the book. “Di Genova convinced them. Her.”

So, the man felt guilt, then; for there was no way he could have missed the impact his questions had on Yusuf. “Good,” he said and it was like a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. 

“They are not giving up, Yusuf. They are not going to fight us today but I do not believe they intend to leave Netherfield soon, either.”

“Then we shall fight back,” Yusuf said. “Come, let me change and we can eat.”

By the time he was presentable, the ache in his limbs reminding him with every move of his angry training, Yusuf could already hear some noise coming from the entry hall. He came out from behind the screen and Nile gave him a questioning look.

“You do not think…?”

“That mama would arrive for breakfast?” Yusuf asked. “Of course I do. Come, now, try to look sick.”

Nile laughed and Yusuf fought his own desire to do the same; he bundled her up in his coat and she shrunk in on herself to fit under his arm. “You will have to maintain this ruse for a few days, you realise?” 

“I think I can manage that.”

Yusuf did not dare look at her as they descended the stairs, for fear of them both collapsing into laughter. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman was at the foot of the stairs, as was to be expected, Eli, Karima, and Leyla in tow. Monsieur le Livre and Signor di Genova had met them and Yusuf was surprised that Mademoiselle le Livre was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you here to take Nile home?” Yusuf heard Monsieur le Livre ask.

“No,” Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said but Yusuf and Nile made it down the stairs quickly and Yusuf all but pushed Nile past their family.

“Yes, we must not trespass any longer on your kindness, monsieur.” 

“Surely she is too ill to be moved?” Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said.

“Truly, she does not look well,” Le Livre said and Yusuf bit his tongue; what was he _playing at?_ Nile squeezed his wrist tightly enough for it to be painful and he hurried her out to the carriage.

Nile’s eyes were sparkling when he helped her inside and he swatted at her leg, out of sight. “Hush,” he said. “I will bring the others.”

Eli climbed into the carriage easily enough, when Yusuf told him he required someone to watch over Nile but Karima and Leyla were fascinated by the brief view they had of Netherfield and seemed intent to annoy Monsieur le Livre to death. Not that he was not taking it in good humour.

“You should certainly hold a ball here, Monsieur le Livre,” Leyla said and Karima nodded vigorously. “Everyone in Hertfordshire would wish to attend.”

“It certainly would break this terrible tension and lift the spirits of the county,” Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman agreed and by her side, Yusuf fought the urge to sigh. He wished for nothing more than to never visit this estate again.

“Out of the question,” Di Genova said to Le Livre. “The security risk alone–”

Yusuf knew he did not mean the zombies. 

But Monsieur Le Livre did not seem inclined to listen. “When Nile is recovered, we shall. If you please name the day.” He aimed a smile at Leyla at this last remark and Yusuf rolled his eyes as his sister giggled under the attention.

“Mama, please, Nile is in the carriage already.”

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said her farewells, as did Leyla and Karima, and when they looked to Yusuf, he smiled. “I will be but a moment. I must properly thank our hosts for their kindness.”

Satisfied, the women left the manor and Yusuf turned to Le Livre and Di Genova. Although the atmosphere was not hostile, it was charged, and Yusuf took a second to weigh over what he wished to say.

“I am certain you will all care for her,” he said, careful to keep his voice pitched low. “But if you take her from us now, before she agrees to leave, then I will do everything I can to find you and kill you, if I must.”

Di Genova frowned. “You understand that we cannot–”

“I am fully aware of how things would end if that were the case. I know Nile would beg me not to do it. And yet I know my own heart and I know what I would do. I would be perfectly content to die for something I believed in.” He risked a look at Di Genova and was not sure what possessed him to ask the next question. “Did you?”

Silence, before, “I’m sorry?” Di Genova asked.

“Did you die for something you believed in?”

Di Genova’s ears turned red; he licked his lips and looked away. Le Livre looked between them and Yusuf saw his expression shift as he attempted to come up with something to dissipate the tension.

Yusuf had no intention of letting that happen. After however many years they had been alive, let them stew in their discomfort.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Yusuf said before Le Livre opened his mouth. “Goodbye, gentlemen.” 

He did not like to turn his back on them, but he squared his shoulders and did it anyway.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young parson comes to Longbourn. The Al-Kaysanis encounter a zombie trap on their way to Meryton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone who's commented on this fic so far (and everyone who will do it in future!!!) you are all making my days brighter and brighter 🌞
> 
> also i did my best to fit nicky into this chapter but am having to balance how much content i can cram in with the style with how much i can write in a day. dw, he'll be back tomorrow 🖤

A week passed, wherein Nile did her best to feign both her illness and her recovery and Yusuf was glad not to lay his eyes on either the Le Livres or Di Genova. He trained each morning with his siblings, spent his afternoons helping around the estate or wandering the countryside and, despite his best efforts, did not stop thinking of the way Di Genova had resolutely not answered his final question.

Nile received one letter from Monsieur le Livre – _Sebastien,_ she called him now – three days after their departure from Netherfield. It was all perfectly appropriate and polite, with not even a whisper of the secret they all now shared.

The secret, Yusuf knew, that the others rather wished he had no knowledge of.

The first afternoon that Nile had risen from her sickbed found them all cleaning their weapons in the sitting room. Yusuf's father was, for once, not at his desk; he had business in town and although Yusuf had offered to accompany him, with Nile supposedly still recovering, his father had declined. Eli, Karima, and Leyla were of course more than capable of defending Longbourn in the event of an attack, but Yusuf knew his father cared for his wife, his children, and wanted to see them protected.

Despite his mother's death occurring when he was still small, Yusuf knew he had some traits that he had inherited from her – his sharp tongue being one. Some others, such as his unconditional devotion to his family, came from his father.

The journey to town meant that they were all surprised to hear their father's voice at the door. Yusuf and Nile exchanged puzzled looks when they heard another male voice; it was not that they never had visitors, simply that the voice was unfamiliar and unexpected.

“Come, you should meet my children,” they heard and then Mr Al-Kaysani pushed the door to the sitting room open, ushering a stranger in before him.

He was no one Yusuf had met before, though were they anywhere else in the world, he would still have surmised the stranger was English. It was evident in the pale colour of his eyes, the ruddy colour of his cheeks. His smile was intimidated, lopsided, and he clearly did not know what to do with his hands.

“Children, allow me to introduce you to Parson Merrick, newly arrived in Hertfordshire. Parson, my sons, Yusuf and Eli, and my daughters, Nile, Karima, and Leyla.”

They all murmured their hellos and there was something Yusuf did not like in the way Merrick's eyes slid over him first, then Nile.

Still, Nile was ever more polite than he could manage. “What brings you to Hertfordshire, Parson?”

“I have an acquaintance in your Aunt Phillips. When she heard of my search for a wife, she insisted I come to Hertfordshire and that I must visit Longbourn.”

Aunt Phillips was not an aunt in the truest sense but she had been a good friend of Nile's mother for a long time. The explanation rang true, then, although Yusuf was not sure he liked it.

“I plan to take the parson on a walk about Longbourn,” Mr Al-Kaysani said. “We will return in time for dinner.”

They said their goodbyes and Karima and Leyla were already exchanging hushed, excited words before the door closed. Yusuf picked up his musket again, going over a spot he knew he had already cleaned. Why did the arrival of a new parson, one known to their family, awake such dread in him?

He looked at Nile. She did not return the look, engrossed in her task. Yusuf decided not to dwell on it further.

***

Later, Yusuf was not sure he had ever been made to sit through a more excruciating dinner. It was bad enough that the man was only here to choose one of his sisters as a wife; having to listen to boring conversation was simply an added tedium.

“Tell me, Mr Al-Kaysani, to which of your fair daughters do I owe the compliments of this excellent cooking?”

Yusuf fought the urge to snort into his soup. Nile, sitting beside him, kicked him under the table.

“My daughters are trained for battle, sir. Not the kitchen.” It seemed some of his father's earlier congeniality toward the parson had worn thin, though he was still being civil.

“Quite, Mr Al-Kaysani,” Merrick said, his cheeks reddening a little. He was wholly uninteresting, Yusuf thought, which was the problem. His novelty was already even wearing off with Karima and Leyla and Eli was not even pretending to listen; while seated on Parson Merrick's left, he was staring past Yusuf and out of the window.

“Mrs Phillips sent word that you were in search of a wife, Parson,” Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman said and Yusuf felt the shift in the atmosphere at the table. He glanced at Nile, who raised an eyebrow in reply.

“Ah, that is, yes, I am. I have a modest but consistent income, with the steady job in my local parish. It has been impressed upon me that it is important that a parson lead by example–” He seemed to realise, all of a sudden, how that could sound and his face coloured again. “What I mean to say, is, yes. I am in search of a wife.”

“And Mrs Phillips suggested you come here?” Mr Al-Kaysani asked.

“Of course,” Parson Merrick replied. “She informed me of the most formidable skill of all of your daughters when it comes to the warrior arts.”

That appeared to impress Yusuf’s father somewhat; Yusuf knew that there were still men who insisted their wives renounce their swords upon marriage and Mr Al-Kaysani often denounced those men as fools. 

“They are also skilled in womanly arts,” Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman interjected. “Embroidery, music… I can assure you, Parson, you would not find a finer bride in Hertfordshire than at this table.”

Yusuf had never seen any of his sisters with a needle in her hand in his life. 

Parson Merrick smiled, his eyes sliding from Nile to Karima to Leyla and then back again. He stopped on Nile. “I declare, I am enchanted by your daughter Nile.”

Beside him, Nile went entirely still. 

“I request to speak to her alone. If I may?” 

Yusuf went to open his mouth but, under the table, Nile grabbed his wrist. A warning; Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman was already shaking her head.

“Oh, dear Parson. I’m afraid Nile is already spoken for; we are expecting a serious proposal imminently.” 

“Oh… dear.” Merrick seemed genuinely upset by this turn of events and while Yusuf knew it could be simply that he was already taken with his sister, he still felt that unpleasant concern from earlier.

“But Karima is quite available and as fair as Nile.”

Karima blushed even as Leyla shook her arm excitedly. Yusuf twisted his wrist gently out of Nile’s grip, took her hand and squeezed. Their younger sisters were obsessed with men in the way young women often could be but Yusuf knew they did not anticipate being wed so soon, not with Yusuf and Nile – and even Eli – being so much older than they were. It was a fun thing to fantasise about, he thought, but different being faced with it.

Much like facing a zombie for the first time; except one could not exactly behead an unwanted suitor.

The thought almost made him laugh but he turned his attention back to the conversation in time to hear Parson Merrick say, “Is there absolutely no negotiation over Nile?”

It was his turn to grab for Nile before she said something she might regret; again, Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman was quick to soothe over the conversation with, “The early bird catches the worm, Mr Merrick.” 

“Oh, indeed.”

“When searching for a wife, it is always best to learn the skill of giving a compliment, sir,” Mrs Al-Kaysani said and Yusuf stared at his plate so as to not laugh aloud. Perhaps he had not wholly inherited his sharp tongue from his mother, after all.

“Oh, no! Why… yes. She is… almost– As fair as the other one.” 

Silence. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman looked around the table and smiled. “Splendid,” she said.

***

The next day, Yusuf was not even in his training clothes before he heard a knock at the door. Eli was already awake and gone; either to take a walk before breakfast or see to something from the day before, Yusuf did not know. He began pulling on his shirt but the door was already opening. Nile let herself in, only raising an eyebrow at his state of undress.

Yusuf rolled his eyes. “It is early.”

“Yes, well, I hardly managed to sleep a wink last night, what with Karima and Leyla talking about Karima’s future wedding.” She sat on his bed and pulled a face. “Well, it was mostly Leyla doing the talking. That girl would marry tomorrow if she could.”

Yusuf hummed his agreement and pulled on his boots before he set to tucking his shirt in. Parson Merrick had stayed at Longbourn the night before and though politeness might dictate interacting with their guest, Yusuf planned to make a whole day of training to avoid that as much as possible.

“Merrick is certainly something, is he not?” Nile asked and when Yusuf looked at her, she was clearly trying not to laugh.

“He shows absolutely no decorum,” he huffed. “I am unsurprised Karima is not excited at the prospect of spending her life with him.”

Nile waved a hand in his direction. “She can always say no.”

“But, will she?”

She thought on that for a moment and then shook her head. “Anyway, that is of no consequence right now. Karima and Leyla are planning a visit to Meryton. Parson Merrick’s arrival serves as a good foil; they know the regiment has recently added new recruits.”

Yusuf groaned. “Nile…”

“Yes, we must accompany them.”

All of Yusuf’s carefully laid plans went up like smoke. Not only could he _not_ avoid Merrick, he would have to spend most of his day with the man. 

“I do have better news,” Nile added. 

Yusuf looked at her questioningly.

“I have yet to tell Eli.”

Yusuf followed her to where Eli was hiding – up in a yew tree, reading a book that Yusuf knew at a glance was Wollstonecraft’s _Rights of Women;_ seemingly a comforting re-read. He looked up when they called him but when Nile explained their planned expedition, let out a groan that put Yusuf’s to shame.

They returned inside to breakfast, Parson Merrick making several remarks that, while perfectly complimentary and benign, simply did not sit right with Yusuf. Then it was time to ready themselves and before Yusuf knew it, almost half the day had passed and they were on the road to Meryton.

“Miss Karima, how charming you look today,” Merrick said and while Leyla giggled, Karima did not really respond. “Let us look in the shop windows of Meryton. We can buy some new pots and pans? I have, sadly, only the two at home.” 

Yusuf made up the final part of their small procession; Eli was some way up ahead. At the comment about his pots and pans, Nile turned to look at Yusuf, who did not attempt to hide his smile. He did not want Merrick paying any more attention to Karima than he had to Nile, but there was time still to do something about that.

They rounded the corner and found Eli, stopped. Danger rippled through their ranks and Leyla’s amusement vanished; they saw the overturned carriage beyond damaged trees and everyone but Nile readied their musket.

“Oh… is there some kind of trouble?” Merrick asked. Yusuf stalked past him and heard a faint, “Ah, it appears there is.”

There was nothing behind them for them to worry about Merrick, and while he, Eli, Karima, and Leyla lined up at one side of the grassy embankment, Nile stepped a little way down. She had drawn her sword, if not her gun. 

“It’s Penny McGregor’s carriage,” she said quietly and they all jumped when they heard banging from the inside.

“Help!”

“Someone’s trapped inside,” Merrick said, unhelpfully. Yusuf signalled his siblings; they aimed.

“Nile,” he said. 

“Please, help me!” the plaintive voice from inside the carriage cried again. “Anyone! Help!”

Nile took another step forward; she seemed, for a moment, entranced by it and Yusuf suppressed the sharp desire to run down after her and haul her back. 

It did not matter. The door to the carriage burst open and Yusuf saw his sister’s shoulders square, her ready stance. He looked down the sights of his musket.

Penny McGregor – or, more precisely, the zombie that had been Penny McGregor – climbed out of the carriage. Her red hair was half-tumbled out of what, Yusuf remembered, was its usual tidy style and although she was not visibly decaying, congealed blood was smeared over her mouth, down her chin. It had soaked into her dress and coat.

She climbed out of the carriage nimbly, looking only at Nile, her smile wide and unnerving. “There was a terrible accident,” she said. “But I survived. I survived, Nile!”

Nile took a step back as the zombie approached. “Not in the traditional sense of the word.”

They fired. Yusuf was not sure who hit the zombie – most likely, all four of them – but Nile was the one to remove the former Miss McGregor’s head with a swift, sure stroke. Yusuf had them all wait a moment but it did appear that whatever or whoever had caused the McGregors’ carriage to crash, it was long gone.

Parson Merrick came up behind him, too close, and Yusuf thought him lucky that he had not thought it was a zombie. “It appears Miss McGregor will not be delivering any more lamp oil.”

Yusuf turned to look at him and took a step off the embankment, forcing the parson back onto the path. “No, she will not,” he replied. He did not mind killing the zombies; it was absolutely the right thing to do and he had never doubted that, not from the moment his father had first pressed a saif into his hands. However, it did not mean he could simply forget about the person they had once been. 

He found he did not wish to, either.

“I must confess,” Merrick said, and Yusuf realised Karima had taken the opportunity to walk off ahead, Leyla tugging on her arm. “I was unaware that zombies possessed the required acuity to set such traps.”

He looked at Yusuf as though Yusuf was supposed to have an answer to that, as though there was some hidden meaning they both knew. If there was another meaning, Yusuf could not parse it.

After a long second, Merrick smiled. It was unlike his earlier smiles; his eyes were steel, Yusuf realised, and he felt a sudden, terrible churning in his gut. “Before we know it, they’ll be running for parliament. Come along.”

Yusuf waited for a second after Merrick had gone, looking back at the late Miss McGregor. Something felt horribly wrong and, for once, it was not the zombie.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Al-Kaysanis are invited to a ball. Nicolò confesses a terrible secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're all ready to pronounce 'lieutenant' like left-enant!

Leyla and Karima rushed ahead upon their arrival in Meryton and Eli shot Yusuf a beseeching look before he followed. They had already begun speaking to two red-coated soldiers; the men smiled at his sisters, immediately intrigued, and Yusuf knew it was enough to have Eli watch over them.

“This must be the extra military stationed here in Meryton,” Parson Merrick said to Yusuf’s right and he nodded almost absently. “I did not know the zombie threat was so serious, here.”

“There has been a recent increase in attacks,” Yusuf replied, glad for the change of subject. The parson had done his best to recite Bible verses to them along the way, to little interest from any of their party. Nile, Eli, and Leyla went to church with their mother every Sunday; Yusuf performed Salah when he remembered, which was less often these days, Karima being the far more devout of the two of them. He was not sure if the parson had intended to offend but tried to err on the side of doubt when it came to matters such as these.

“And you are all well?”

Yusuf looked at Merrick. “You can see that we are, sir.”

Merrick’s smile was still crooked, placid, and Nile hooked her arm through Yusuf’s on his other side. “Come along,” she said. “Leyla is talking poor Lieutenant Danny’s ear off.”

They met with the two soldiers, introducing the young parson in the first instance. Lieutenant Danny had grown up in Meryton and he and Yusuf spoke in low tones about the zombie front for a few minutes. Nile was alert, even here; after the introductions, the parson hovered at Yusuf’s back, making his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“Aren’t we overdue at the Phillips’?” Merrick said, voice cutting through the conversation, and Yusuf saw Karima roll her eyes.

“It would appear we are, Mr Merrick,” Yusuf replied. He had no desire to spend an extended amount of time with the man but did not wish to insult their guest. Not yet, anyway.

“Walk us?” Leyla asked Lieutenant Danny, eyes wide and pleading.

He smiled at her, blushing just a little, and shook his head. “I fear I have a prior engagement.” 

Leyla pouted, though she appeared mollified when the lieutenant waved goodbye and Parson Merrick fluttered between the five of them, clearly unsure as to who he was supposed to accompany. Nile dropped her head onto Yusuf’s shoulder as they walked. “He is such a bore,” she murmured and Yusuf coughed to cover up his laugh.

“She is baking, so we mustn’t be late,” Merrick said, ahead of them. “I was very keen to be on time.”

Yusuf opened his mouth to point out that they were almost there – Aunt Phillips lived with her family in a small townhouse not far from the centre of Meryton – but then a horse came cantering out of the park and they all stopped in their tracks.

“Monsieur le Livre!” Leyla exclaimed and the man in question smiled amiably, riding over to them.

Di Genova was just behind him, looking elegant atop his steed, not that Yusuf cared much to look. 

“We were just on our way to Longbourn,” Le Livre said. Merrick had rounded the back of their small group, inserted himself between Yusuf and Eli with a hand on Yusuf’s elbow.

Yusuf did not throw him off, but it was a close thing. Instead, he found himself interested in the expression on Di Genova’s face – when he looked at Merrick, it was as though he almost recognised him, though for the life of him Yusuf could not figure out why that would be the case.

“Monsieur le Livre, you promised you would throw a ball at Netherfield,” Leyla said next, the desire to attend clear in every line of her body.

Le Livre looked to Nile, smile softening when their eyes met. “You are quite recovered?”

“She is,” Leyla said. 

Yusuf risked a look at Merrick, who did not seem to as obviously recognise Di Genova. Was there something between them? He wanted to ask but almost did not dare; he had not imagined what he had seen in Merrick in the woods and he was cautious of a man who could so easily hide his true intentions.

“Then I shall begin preparations immediately for the most glorious ball Hertfordshire has seen.”

Despite his reservations, Yusuf was not sure what possessed him to speak up. Di Genova had not so much as looked at him.

There was no good reason why he should not prefer things that way.

“Can Parson Merrick attend?” he asked and his siblings looked as astonished as he felt once the words were out of his mouth. Nile pinched his arm, hard.

Monsieur le Livre did not miss a beat. “Of course. Members of the clergy are always welcome.”

“Excuse me,” Di Genova said and rode off quite abruptly; that appeared to surprise Le Livre, though he managed another smile for Nile.

“Good day, Nile.” 

She pinched him again as they turned toward Aunt Phillips’ house and Yusuf frowned. The parson walked alongside them so she could not ask it aloud but Yusuf knew what she wished to say.

_Yusuf, what were you thinking?_

***

“She is due back any moment, Nicolò, would you please tell me what this is about?”

After their chance encounter with the Al-Kaysanis in Meryton – on their way to ostensibly check on Nile’s health over at Longbourn – Nicolò had found himself agitated. Upon first sight of the two younger girls, Nicolò had steeled himself; he knew their brother would be with them and he did not want to make such a fool of himself as he had managed to do here in Netherfield.

He had forgotten all that, though, when he had lain eyes on Merrick.

Parson Merrick, apparently, and Nicolò was certain the man had not been masquerading as a parson in Bergamo. 

“I do not wish to tell this story twice,” Nicolò said and Sebastien nodded, fell quiet. 

They sat in silence for what seemed like an age, Nicolò staring at his hands, Sebastien looking off out the window. Eventually, there was the echo of the main doors opening and Andromache’s voice floated through to them.

Nicolò’s pulse jumped. He did not _wish_ to tell this story, he realised; he had told himself that the reason he had not told them before, when Andromache had tracked him down to the small villa in Varenna, was because they all had to find their newest member. 

Now he wondered if fear had not been a contributing factor in that decision.

She swept into the room, took one look at Nicolò’s face and closed the door behind her. Axe in hand, she sat in the free armchair and for a moment, none of them said anything.

“What happened?” 

Nicolò did not know where to begin but she took pity on him.

“Sebastien?”

“I don’t know. We rode for Longbourn today but came across Nile and her siblings in Meryton. They asked about the ball and I said we would begin preparations. Her brother asked–”

“Yes?” Andromache leant forward in her seat, her grip on the axe suddenly tighter. She did not much like Yusuf, for no other reason than the difficulty Nicolò seemed to have thinking around him. Nicolò thought that terribly unfair; Yusuf was certainly making it clear he wanted nothing to do with that.

“Her brother asked if a parson could attend,” Sebastien said with a shrug. “I said yes; there seemed no harm in it. Nicolò rode off and will not tell me what is the matter.”

Nicolò curled his hands into fists. He did not wish to hit anything. The movement alone was enough to ground him, remind him that he could move – he could walk around this room, if he wished to.

“He is no parson,” Nicolò said. “He may pretend to be a man of God but I do not think God would sign His name to the things Merrick has done.”

Andromache sat back in her chair again. Sebastian gaped. “You _know_ him?”

It was easier to speak these truths to the rug than his oldest friends. “I went to Lombardy ten years ago to assist in their efforts against the zombies. I knew I was nearing my time to leave; I had been travelling from town to town but it was becoming clear that I would be found out, soon, if I did not go. 

“Bergamo was my final stop. I intended to travel back through Europe after, perhaps head to Asia. I met Merrick my second night there.”

“How long ago?” Sebastien asked.

“Three years. Before we knew about Nile.”

He paused and Andromache said, softly, “Go on.”

“He was not fighting; he was clearly English and said he had come to Italy to trade but been caught up in a nearby siege. He spoke little Italian and seemed to have no ill intentions, so I offered to help him return to England. 

“It was all rather more complicated than I had anticipated, so when I was not fighting at the front, I spent time with him. After a month or so, upon my return, he insisted we go visit a place he had heard of nearby, a place full of zombies. I wished to inform the regiment but he said they were weakened and we could easily set the place aflame and kill them all.”

Nicolò sighed. “It was a trap. A trap I should have seen coming.”

“How–” Sebastien asked and then shook his head, cut himself off.

“I am not entirely sure what happened, but I believe there were several men and one of them killed me. When I awoke, I was tied down and Merrick was there.” He swallowed. It was not the first time he had been captured, of course, but it was the first time his captor had been so _interested_ in what he was.

“Nicolò,” Andromache said. “Nicky. What did he do?”

“I was in there for almost two years,” Nicolò said and his voice was a quiet, tremulous thing. “He had found out, somehow, that I could not die. For the first few months, he believed I was a zombie. Later, he said that I was a clue: a zombie that did not require brains to survive, that could survive its head being destroyed and its organs being removed and, better still, would simply renew all those parts if–”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and, when he dared to look up for the first time, saw Sebastien’s eyes shining in the candlelight. Andromache’s hand shook when she moved her axe.

“I escaped,” Nicolò said and he was unsure who he was attempting to comfort. “Merrick had started capturing zombies, some of the townspeople too, to see if they were like we are. It meant he was distracted and did not leave his best men behind. Besides, the zombie threat was creeping in; one day when he had gone into the town, I got free of my bonds and killed the men remaining there.”

“You could not find Merrick?” Sebastien asked.

Nicolò squeezed his eyes shut. “I did not look,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

Tears spilled down his face; for his fear, his shame, the pain he had undergone – but also for the fact that, by not killing Merrick, he had betrayed them all. There was not a chance Merrick had not recognised him in Meryton today, although he had done an admirable job of pretending they were strangers to one another. 

“How long had you been free,” Andromache said, “When I came to you in Varenna?”

“A few months.”

“He was at Longbourn,” Sebastien said suddenly, and when Nicolò looked up, there was not a hint of betrayal on his face – only anger and it was not directed at him. “Do you think he knows that Nile is like us?”

The same fear from earlier squeezed Nicolò’s heart. Except, he remembered the way Merrick had pushed between Yusuf and his brother, the casual touch to Yusuf’s elbow. 

“I am not sure,” he said and meant it. 

Andromache reached out, closing her fingers around Nicolò’s wrist. He let out a shaky breath.

“Well, I think it was an inspired idea to invite our dear Parson Merrick to the ball,” she said to Sebastien. Her eyes were clear, a plan already formed.

Sebastien frowned. “And why is that?”

“It gives us ample opportunity to kill him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh yeah so turns out i didn't know merrick had done that until i wrote this... also remember how i said 20 chapters total? that was almost certainly a lie; i'll be updating it at some point!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrick reveals a secret. Yusuf tells a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fans of pride & prejudice & zombies might notice a firm deviation from the timeline of the movie, here; as well, you might notice me shamelessly stealing lines from it which yes i have been doing the whole time. the timeline thing i didn't notice until i was reading my outline but oh well, it's all gonna come together!

Another week passed. Parson Merrick spent half of his time with Aunt Phillips and her family in Meryton and half of his time at Longbourn; Yusuf took to taking long walks around the perimeter of the property, if only to avoid the parson’s gaze, which seemed to follow him around every room.

They had spoken no more than a handful of words to each other, Merrick taking the time to speak mostly to Yusuf’s father or, on occasion, Karima, though Yusuf noticed that she was often even more difficult to find than he was. And despite the fact that the short conversations Yusuf and Merrick had shared had been utterly benign, Yusuf could not forget the way Di Genova’s expression had dropped upon seeing the man; he could not forget the interest Merrick had shown in the former Miss McGregor’s trap.

Today, his feet carried him into the woods, woods that had been awful quiet of late. There had been a spate of attacks after Netherfield had fallen – which was, of course, to be expected – and then more recently, when Mrs Beechum’s orphanage had suffered the same fate. However, the last month or so had seen fewer attacks than Yusuf would have expected.

It was not enough to placate him. That, combined with Nile’s secret, with the Le Livres and Di Genova, with Merrick… He found he could not think straight, sometimes, and that was when he walked, searched for somewhere quiet to shift through everything on his mind.

He found himself in a small clearing, not far from an old church. Yusuf had been here before, albeit not recently; the church had been abandoned for as long as he could remember. 

Movement caught his eye; Yusuf drew his saif and turned. 

Four men were standing there, wearing tailcoats and top hats. Their backs were to him and even as he watched them, they did not move.

“Yusuf,” a voice said and Yusuf whipped back around.

It was Merrick, crashing through the underbrush; Yusuf was surprised to see the man armed and did not lower his own weapon.

“Parson,” he replied. Belatedly, he remembered the men behind him but, when he turned, they were gone. “Did you happen to see four gentlemen pass this way?”

“In top hats?” Merrick said. He came closer, apparently uncaring of Yusuf’s saif. Yusuf had no good reason to want to kill the man; he had, of course, never killed anyone who was not a zombie, and yet the desire was there, just under his skin.

“You saw them?” Yusuf asked and sheathed his saif. 

“No. But they were undoubtedly pallbearers.” He smiled. “This is a cemetery.” 

Yusuf nodded. He knew that but there had been something unsettling about the figures, almost as though he had half-imagined them. Squaring his shoulders, he turned back to Merrick. He would return to Longbourn. 

“Oh, Mr Al-Kaysani?” Merrick said, as though he had realised the forwardness of his earlier greeting. “I would like to take you somewhere very special to me.”

“I really should get back to Longbourn.”

“Really? It is a secret place; I have never shown it to another living soul. I stumbled upon it by accident when I first arrived in Hertfordshire, but somehow I feel I was always destined to find it.”

There was a fever in Merrick’s eyes, an excitement in his tone that had all the hairs on the back of Yusuf’s neck on end. He shook his head. “Regrettably, I must decline. Excuse me, Parson.”

“I wonder if your younger sisters might be interested in accompanying me to see it,” Merrick said as Yusuf walked past him. Yusuf froze. Whatever Merrick had planned, it was sure not to end well and Yusuf would never forgive himself if he lost another sister.

“Lead the way, Mr Merrick.”

Merrick smiled in triumph and Yusuf followed him through the cemetery, to the church. It was crumbling in places, more than one window broken and, Yusuf realised, he could hear voices from within. 

“After you,” Merrick said at the door and Yusuf looked at him incredulously.

“I very much doubt I am welcome in your kind of church, sir.”

Merrick laughed. “You may not like what you find inside, but they are at least more likely to accept having you in their midst.”

Yusuf bit back a retort and stepped into the building. 

When his father had first met Nile’s mother, back when Yusuf was fifteen and new to this biting island, all but overridden by zombies, he had gone once to a church. His father, too. They had both remained silent at the back and Yusuf, at least, had been incredibly aware of all the askance looks thrown their way.

He had never felt more out of place than that day but it was (the then) Mrs Freeman who had apologised, then gifted him a new Sajjāda the next week. Yusuf knew, then, that she would marry his father. He did not appreciate the gift any less and, though his father ventured to church with her a few more times, Yusuf never did again.

Until now.

It was cold, inside, and dark in the entryway, but the pews were spread out before him and he saw that a fair number of people were in attendance. Merrick put his hand on the back of Yusuf’s upper arm, steering him over to an empty bench at the back. Up front, the parson was reciting his sermon. Nothing appeared out of place on first glance, but something was _wrong._

“Why did you bring me here, Mr Merrick?” Yusuf asked.

“All will become clear, Mr Al-Kaysani. And it is of course not to convert you, if that were your fear.”

Yusuf rolled his eyes.

“Well, not to convert your faith anyway.”

Yusuf lifted his head, frowning, but the girls in front of him turned around and he stilled. They were zombies, the both of them, not decaying and frenzied like the ones he often saw; they regarded him with large, serious eyes, and then one shook her head and shushed him.

He reached for his saif but Merrick grabbed his wrist. “It’s alright,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

Everyone in the church was looking at them now and the panic was so thick as to choke him when Yusuf saw that they all, every last one of them, was a zombie. He could escape the church, perhaps, but he had walked from Longbourn instead of riding and he did not like his odds.

Merrick’s grip did not loosen. After a long moment, the parson spoke again and attention shifted back to him. Yusuf tore his arm from Merrick’s grasp.

“What _is_ this?” he hissed.

“Watch,” Merrick said. “It is their time to receive communion – the blood and body of Christ.”

“I know what it is,” Yusuf replied, with more irritation than he intended. 

Why were the zombies not already upon them? He had not met a zombie that did not instantly wish to tear into a person, crack open their skull and devour their brains…

Except, he realised, he had.

“Mrs Featherstone,” he murmured and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merrick’s grin turn sly.

“Watch carefully,” he said. “The locusts have no king and yet all of them go forth marching anywhere.”

The parson ladled a deep red liquid out of the large bowl at the front of the church; only, as he tipped it into the glass he held, Yusuf saw a solid mass fall in with it.

“Brains!”

“No, they are pigs’ brains,” Merrick said and he sounded almost smug. “You have nothing to fear. Come, let us discuss this elsewhere.”

Yusuf did not wish to go anywhere with the man, a man who worshipped with the undead and revelled in Yusuf’s discomfort.

He also did not wish to be alone in a church full of zombies. Good sense won out.

They walked back through the cemetery in silence. Yusuf was not sure he had ever been speechless in his life, but he could think of nothing to say now.

“If the zombies never consume human brains,” Merrick said, quite out of nowhere, “Then they will never fully transform into zombies. St Lazarus’ is the key to finding the end of the struggle between the living and the undead. We must force some kind of understanding with the most advanced among them.”

A laugh tore itself from Yusuf’s throat. “An understanding? Are you a fool, Merrick?”

“Far from it,” Merrick replied and he was, in fact, deadly serious. “It’s only a matter of time before they outnumber us. Nine months to make a baby then sixteen years to make a soldier and one raw second to make a zombie. You must realise we cannot defeat them.”

Yusuf stared at him for a moment. He could see something in Merrick’s fervour, something that went beyond any concern he had for the living. “You do not care about that,” he said and the flash of anger that crossed Merrick’s face confirmed it. “Why did you bring me here? Even if we were to reason with them, how would I help you?”

At that, Merrick smiled. “You know, I thought you too trusting when I first saw you. You are clearly protective of your family, almost to a fault and yet, after everything that has happened, you have stayed with them.”

“I do not understand.”

“I know what you are.”

What _he_ was? He was nothing, no one; at least, no one of consequence, no one Merrick should have to seek out. 

Unless– Yusuf’s heart hammered against his ribs.

“What do you believe you know about me?”

“I met one of your kind before, in Italy. He was a dear friend of mine; we spent a most pleasant two years together before he abandoned me. Admittedly, my experiments with Mr Kingston at Netherfield were rather less controlled than I had hoped, but since they led me to you…”

Yusuf’s stomach dropped. Merrick knew. He had it all backwards, of course, but he _knew._

And Yusuf understood, suddenly, the risk he was taking. He could never expose Nile to this vile man – would never dream of it – but he did not share her gift. If Merrick killed him, he would not simply wake from it.

“How did you discover it?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice level.

Merrick sighed. “I had hoped to feed all the occupants of Netherfield pigs’ brains, to see how long they could last before succumbing. Since we know a zombie only begins to transform after their first kill, with each subsequent one accelerating that process, my theory is that a zombie that never ingests human brains will never lose themselves; of course, this is rather difficult to test, as they are so drawn to consuming us. However, I managed to secret Mrs Featherstone away after she was bitten. After I found her wandering the woods.”

Ah. “She saw me.”

“Yes,” Merrick confirmed with a nod but he was not looking at Yusuf now; he was staring past him at some indeterminate point in the distance. “She told me her daughter had met Yusuf Al-Kaysani on the road. Poor Cassandra was destroyed, but Al-Kaysani had died too – and then woke again.”

“You did not think me a zombie?”

“She said your sister was with you. I assume your sister is under strict instruction to destroy you, should you succumb?”

“Of course.”

Merrick shrugged. “Then I have my answer.”

“And what will you do with it?”

“That entirely depends on you. I would greatly appreciate the chance to study you, to learn more about how you differ from the undead.”

On the last word, Yusuf drew his saif, stepping into Merrick’s space and grabbing the front of the parson’s coat. When he felt steel at his throat, Merrick paled and, for the first time all day, Yusuf saw his fear. 

Still, Merrick was no zombie. Yusuf’s hand did not tremble but he cursed his own doubt. He could not simply kill a man in cold blood, even if he thought that man a threat to his family. How would he possibly justify that?

“I need you to understand one thing, Mr Merrick. I will not help you with whatever _this_ is that you have here. I will not help you find out what I am. You will leave Hertfordshire because if you show your face here again, I will not hesitate in my next strike.”

He waited, staring Merrick in the eyes until colour flooded the other man’s face and he averted his gaze. 

“Do you understand?” Yusuf growled.

“I understand.”

Yusuf let go of him, pushing him back a little way but he did not sheath his saif and he certainly did not turn his back.

“I have one more question,” Yusuf said.

Merrick frowned. “What?”

“Who did you meet in Italy? Your dear friend; who was he?”

For some reason, Merrick smiled. “Oh, our dear Nicolò di Genova, of course.”

***

Yusuf walked home in a daze. He had to tell Nile, naturally; he could not hide from her all that he had just witnessed.

That was such an easy decision to come to that he spent the rest of the time thinking about Di Genova. He had been _friends_ with that man? Yusuf could hardly believe it – at least, he had never sensed that Monsieur le Livre would threaten Nile, so why on earth would he acquaint himself with someone who could?

And yet, it was not as if Merrick had not discovered some deep secret about them. In Yusuf’s case he was incorrect, of course, but he wondered now if that had been the truth Mrs Featherstone had been so desperate to impart that she had found her way to him even in her zombie state. 

Di Genova had taken that truth from him, he remembered. Had shot her before she could reveal it, warn him. But then, Di Genova _knew_ Nile was the one who could not die; so, if he was friends with Merrick, why would he not have told him that?

As Longbourn appeared in the distance, Yusuf found himself no closer to a definite answer. He took a moment before he entered the house, to ensure he was acting as though nothing had happened. He had been on a walk in the woods, that was all. He had seen nothing, not even a zombie.

When he opened the door, he heard a delighted shout and then Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman’s, “One _week_ from now?”

Yusuf entered the sitting room and Leyla smiled at him, rushing to his side. “You will not believe the news!”

“What is it?” Yusuf asked. Everyone was here; his father was reading a letter at his desk and when Yusuf met his gaze, he smiled wryly.

“Monsieur le Livre has sent invitations to the ball at Netherfield,” Nile said and Leyla scowled as her sister said it first. “Are you quite alright, Yusuf? You look pale.”

Yusuf nodded. He had heard how Nile’s voice had softened when she had said the monsieur’s name and he forced a smile. “Fine,” he said and the lie was already, inexplicably, there on his tongue. “I met a zombie in the woods. I destroyed it, of course, but I was not expecting it.”

Leyla let go of him, less interested in this conversation than the one her mother was having with Karima about which dresses they would wear, and Nile looked him over, once.

“You are alright, then?”

“I am quite well, I promise.” 

She nodded, accepting it, and Yusuf swallowed his doubt. The opportunity to confront Di Genova was right there – and before that, what good would come of confiding in his sister theories he had spun for himself? He could not trust Merrick, that much was clear, but he did not trust Di Genova either.

He told himself it was for the best and hoped that he would eventually believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who's excited for the ball at netherfield??? 😏


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Le Livres host a ball at Netherfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy, okay, i was gonna try and fit all of the netherfield ball in one chapter but 1) it's been a hell of a day over here and so i got started on this wayyyy later than i wanted and just really wanted to post something and 2) if i had put it all up in one go, this chapter would be approx. 6k long, so 3x as long as a regular chapter. just not my jam. so tomorrow (or later today for me, technically) will be the rest of the netherfield ball!
> 
> also tysm for all the lovely comments, i will likely go through and reply this weekend but i do read every single one i promise!!

“Yusuf, hurry up and choose or we are going to be late!” Eli did not slam the door behind him but Yusuf knew he had meant to.

Still, he could _not_ decide between the two outfits laid out on his bed. One was in the English style, tight breeches and waistcoat; the other was his more traditional wear – his nicest caftan and siwal, a deep, dark purple, embroidered in gold. He did not need to impress anyone tonight. He needed to be presentable, he needed to find an opportunity to speak to Monsieur le Livre, or Mademoiselle le Livre, and then he needed to determine whether anything Merrick had told him was true.

His thoughts were not only centred on what to wear; he had thought of little more than Merrick in the past week, unless he had been thinking of Di Genova, trying to puzzle out the connection between them. He could not take Merrick’s words at face value; and yet, what would the man have to gain by lying? It was not as though Yusuf and Di Genova were friends and it was not as though this fact was not clear to everyone in Meryton.

Someone knocked at the door and still Yusuf did not move. Nile let herself in and sighed.

“Yusuf, you are still in your underclothes.”

“I cannot decide.”

She crossed the room and stood next to him, looking both outfits over with a critical eye. When she looked at him, her expression was confused. “You already know what to wear.”

“I do not, I–”

Nile clicked her tongue against her teeth impatiently. “You clearly want Signor di Genova to regret calling you _tolerable_ , Yusuf. Wear the caftan. You know he will not be able to look away.”

Yusuf turned to her, aghast. “I do not wish for him to–”

She was already waving her hands at him, rolling her eyes. “Is this what you’ve been so fixated on this week? I could have chosen this style of dress for you three days ago!”

Ah. That. He had still decided against telling Nile what he had seen. He had returned to the church, of course, only to find it truly abandoned, this time, all traces that there was ever a zombie there vanished. None of them had seen Merrick, either; though the general consensus among his family members seemed to be that they were relieved.

“Now, please hurry. Leyla was ready to come up here herself but I feared she might try to run you through.” 

She kissed his forehead and swept out of the room again. Yusuf picked up his siwal and began to dress. She had received another letter from Monsieur le Livre during the week and this one had brought a smile to her face; Yusuf fancied that, when she told him about it, there were parts she was keeping to herself.

What if they did fall in love? It was the only kind of love that would not ultimately hurt her, Yusuf supposed – if they both lived forever, it would be a stark contrast in her life to all others who would sicken and die. 

But then, his thoughts spiralled back to Di Genova, to Merrick, and he pulled on his tunic too quickly, almost tearing it in his haste. He had to remain calm tonight. Enjoy the ball, as it were. Attempt to find one of the Le Livres on their own and ask them about it.

He descended the stairs a quarter of an hour later and, for once, his father said nothing about the saif at his hip. They were all impatient to leave and so Yusuf followed everyone out to the carriage obediently, he and Nile taking the seats opposite each other at one side, Karima and Eli sitting opposite at the other. 

It was already dark, of course, but the full moon picked out no zombies lurking in the trees and when they made it to Netherfield without incident, Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman let out a relieved breath. 

“Let us hope you find no zombies at the ball tonight, Yusuf,” she said as the carriage slowed. “Although it might not hurt should that lofty signor come to your rescue again.”

Leyla giggled and Yusuf shot her a glare. The carriage came to a stop and they all climbed out, Nile hooking her arm through Yusuf’s once they were on the ground.

“Why does your mother think I would be interested in Di Genova? Why does she think he would show interest in me?”

Nile laughed quietly. “Maybe she sees something you do not.”

Yusuf doubted that. They entered Netherfield and while it had been an imposing building during Nile’s short stay, it was beautiful now; he could hardly believe the mademoiselle had achieved this feat in the scant two weeks she had been given to arrange everything. Leyla and Karima were off, admiring the murals and the decoration, whispering to each other and even Eli seemed interested, for once; although Yusuf was not sure if he was admiring the walls or the young lady he had been dancing with at the assembly hall, who was standing nearby and doing her best not to look back.

Dancing was already underway when they walked into the ballroom and Yusuf spared a moment to forget, to ignore the worries that had been plaguing him for weeks, allowing himself to be swept away in the swell of the music, the laughter and joy around him.

The moment did not last long. Not even as long as he intended.

“Mr Merrick,” he said, when the man in question sidled out of a crowd and over to them. “You came.” 

Karima had gone quite pale and even Nile’s grip on Yusuf’s arm had tightened. 

“As I said I would,” Merrick replied. He said a polite greeting to each member of Yusuf’s family in turn, but when their eyes met, Yusuf felt as though Merrick was mocking him.

He had not thought Merrick would dare show his face – but of course here was the safest place he could. Yusuf could not kill him in front of all of society; all of their neighbours, their friends–

And for him to have that kind of confidence, then one thing had to be true: what he had told Yusuf about Di Genova. If it were a lie, he would never have made it into the estate.

“I really should do the polite thing and ask one of you lovely ladies for a dance,” Merrick said and his eyes moved from Nile – with a pointed look at where she and Yusuf were connected – to Karima, to Leyla… and then back to Karima again. Yusuf swallowed.

He could not allow this.

Karima could not refuse.

“Or I could ask you for one,” Yusuf said and ignored the way his face heated when his family members appeared to turn their heads to look at him all in unison. “That is, if you wish?”

Everyone was free to ask anyone they liked, of course; but it was terribly impolite to refuse, especially if one was single and of marriageable age.

Particularly if one had travelled to an area in order to find a spouse.

Perhaps Merrick had said wife before, but no one would judge him for _that_.

Merrick smiled through gritted teeth. “Of course,” he said. “I will seek you out for the next song.”

Nile pulled Yusuf aside, waving at Eli to begin a conversation – _any_ conversation – with their parents, and when they were in a darker corner of the room, he realised she was furious.

“What are you doing?”

“Karima did not wish to dance with him, Nile.”

“Then why did you invite him here in the first place? Do you want to marry him?”

“Ya Allah, Nile, no! I just–”

A shadow fell over them and they both turned. Monsieur le Livre smiled, eyes flicking between them.

“My apologies,” he said, “I fear I am interrupting.”

“No, monsieur, please–”

“Yusuf,” Nile snapped and if Yusuf was surprised, it was nothing compared to the look on Le Livre’s face. “We _will_ talk about this later.”

He could not explain to her what had possessed him – either in inviting Merrick to the ball or to dance – here. Not unless he told her the truth.

Monsieur le Livre cleared his throat. “I should come back.”

Nile turned to him and now the anger was gone, replaced with a smile. Yusuf could not help his own suspicion. He was desperate to find out what was going on, still, but with Merrick here he could hardly think straight.

“No, monsieur,” she said. “I should apologise; you should not have found myself or my brother in bad temper. This ball is an incredible feat. Your sister should be most proud of herself.”

They exchanged a look that Yusuf could not read; there was humour in it and, of course, he knew that the Le Livres were not, in fact, brother and sister in the traditional sense. Still, he felt as though he was missing something.

“May I have the next dance?” Le Livre asked.

“Of course.”

He nodded then, his smile widening a little, and left them after performing a curt bow. Nile shot Yusuf a dark look and then stalked off herself; he could not bring himself to follow her.

Instead, Yusuf scanned the room. Merrick had ducked somewhere out of sight, which was to be expected, and there was no sign of Di Genova, either. He saw Mademoiselle le Livre, however, and did his best to make his way across the room without attracting any undue attention.

She was not, as most hostesses would be, especially at a ball as lavish as this one, surrounded by admirers; she stood off to the side, alone, and Yusuf was caught with some of the same fancy he had felt when he had seen Di Genova’s face highlighted by the fire. She looked at once young and ancient, as though she were looking at the room but not _seeing_ it. Alert, of course, but slightly out of reach for mere mortals.

Yusuf took a breath to steel himself and stepped toward her. He bowed slightly and she was already looking at him when he stood straight again, her expression unreadable.

“I must express my admiration for the ball you have organised, Mademoiselle le Livre.” 

She snorted at that and drank some of the port she was holding. Then again, Yusuf thought, maybe it was not that others saw her as he did; perhaps they simply did not wish to associate with her type of eccentricity. 

“You must not, Mr Al-Kaysani. What is it you want?”

“To speak with you. Alone.”

She was no longer looking at him, instead scanning the room, but she still replied. “It sounds very much as though you wish to propose. You know I will not accept.”

“I do not wish to–” 

The song ended and as Yusuf felt a hand on his arm, he saw the way Mademoiselle le Livre’s eyes widened. She wore fury like Nile did, violent and pure, and Yusuf stepped up between her and Merrick on reflex.

For his part, when Yusuf looked back, Merrick only seemed faintly amused. 

“I must offer my congratulations to the hostess, of course,” he said to her, “But I fear we must part ways quickly.” He looked at Yusuf. “I do hope you haven’t forgotten our dance?”

Oh, but Yusuf did _not_ want all that rage directed at him. And yet, here it was, and he ducked his head. “Of course not, Parson Merrick.”

The parson held out his arm. “Oh, allow me. Excuse us.”

Yusuf allowed himself to be led away and considered, not for the first time, that he really did not have a clear picture of everything that was taking place around him. They took their positions for the dance, the music started, and Yusuf did his best to focus on that instead of doubting his decision.

He had to get rid of Merrick first. Every second Merrick was here was a second his family was in danger; it was a second Merrick was closer to finding out he was wrong, Nile was the one he should be looking for.

He would tell them tonight. After the ball; it would go on until the early hours of the morning and they would certainly be heading back to Longbourn, but it could surely not be that difficult to get the Le Livres on their own – Nile with them, he considered – and tell them what he had seen, what Merrick had said.

“The dance seems to be getting away with us,” Merrick said, because it was not true; they had none of the ease of the people surrounding them, what with Yusuf’s whole posture as stiff as it was.

“Your friends at the church were gone when I returned.”

Merrick laughed; they changed positions. “Of course. They will return eventually, I am sure. They were there long before I arrived in Hertfordshire.”

“So you did not…?”

Merrick did not even do the courtesy of ensuring no one was listening. “I knew what we all know,” he said. “A zombie does not begin to transform until it first ingests human brains. The experiments I have performed… they all involved the zombie not eating anything at all. It does not last long and it ends poorly.”

“Always?”

“In most cases,” Merrick said. Their hands touched; Merrick’s was clammy. Was he nervous about being here? Still, he had come.

“What does that mean?”

Merrick _did_ look left and right this time and when their movements brought them close together, he pressed his lips almost against Yusuf’s ear. “I knew one that lasted five years. Ingested no brains, no meat at all, in fact. But that is a rare thing.”

“So, the ones at the church?”

“They would eventually rot. But a steady diet of pigs’ brains and devout worship has sustained their small community for decades.”

Yusuf’s stomach rolled. Merrick had caused Netherfield’s fall, he remembered. And although Yusuf felt no sympathy for a zombie once it was one, he did not like the way Merrick spoke about what he had done to them.

“I would still love for you to be a test subject,” Merrick said, his voice dropping to almost a purr. “I shall be leaving England this week. Come with me?”

They were so close and Yusuf recognised the arrogance in Merrick; the way he lifted his chin, baring his whole throat. It would be the work of a second to kill him.

He would not even need to think. His muscles knew how to kill.

Yusuf took those thoughts and pushed them firmly to the back of his mind. “I shall not,” he said. “I told you, at the church, that if I saw you again I would not hesitate.”

“And yet I am alive and whole.”

“There are no more balls to be had, Mr Merrick. No more civilised places to hide your face. I do not wish to ruin tonight but that all ends once Netherfield closes its doors. If you remain in Hertfordshire, I will find you.”

Merrick smiled; the song ended and he stepped closer instead of back. “You know, I said I was looking for a wife but I had not realised you would be so beautiful in your anger.”

Yusuf clenched both his fists. He wanted to _kill_ him, decorum be damned; could he lie and say the man was a zombie? But without the bite no one would believe him–

“May I have the next dance?” said a quiet, even voice behind him.

Yusuf did not think. It had snapped him out of his murderous anger and so as he turned, he said, “Yes!” only to stop in his tracks.

Di Genova. He was not looking at Merrick – rather resolutely not looking at Merrick – and Yusuf thought that if zombies piled into Netherfield right then, he might throw himself in their path rather than stand between these two men.

He glanced over his shoulder but Merrick was already gone, vanished somewhere in the throng of people milling around before the next song.

“I will– I must find refreshment, signor,” Yusuf said. He could not be rude. He could _not_ and it had nothing to do with Di Genova’s soft, sad eyes. “I will find you for the dance.”

Di Genova nodded and Yusuf beat as hasty a retreat as he could manage without actively running away. He managed to locate a glass of orgeat lemonade and sipped it slowly, his insides twisting themselves into knots.

“You look… panicked,” Nile said, suddenly on his left and Yusuf almost dropped his drink. He had not even heard her!

“I am fine.”

“You’re lying.” She was quiet for a moment, then, “How was your dance with Merrick?”

He had to tell her. He had to. 

“I threatened to kill him if he did not leave Hertfordshire,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low.

“Yusuf!”

“I will explain everything to you later,” he promised. “There was simply… I thought…”

She reached out, grabbed his free hand. “Is this what has been troubling you for the last week?”

He nodded. “It is something I need to speak to you and the Le Livres about.”

“And Di Genova?”

Yusuf shook his head. 

“But you are about to dance with him?”

He looked up at her sharply. “How do you know that?”

“I saw him ask you, Yusuf. I saw how you looked at him.”

“Nile, I–”

“Just… do not throw away this chance on any doubt, brother, please. It will not hurt you to give him a chance.”

_But it may hurt you_ , Yusuf thought but did not say it aloud. Instead, he finished his drink and when the dancers began getting in position, he pressed the glass into Nile’s hand. 

Di Genova was easy to see; although he was of a height with Yusuf, if not a touch shorter, he had a commanding presence, which was more than likely assisted by his choice of outfit. He wore all black, from his cravat to his boots, which only served to highlight his alabaster complexion.

Yusuf almost laughed at himself. He was no poet; and Di Genova was certainly not his muse.

He nodded at Di Genova as he approached. The dance was a cotillion and Yusuf had to admit to not being especially skilled at it; he did not often dance at balls and he hoped he would not embarrass himself greatly.

There was a murmur further down the line and then the dancers were moving, stepping closer to one another. Di Genova turned his head and Yusuf followed his gaze to see Monsieur le Livre in a whispered conversation with one of the musicians.

“The waltz?” the woman to Yusuf’s right tittered as she stepped up to meet her partner. He did not seem to know where to put his hands. “How _scandalous_.”

Yusuf sighed. Of course. At least Di Genova looked somewhat discomfited when he looked back at Yusuf, though that did not exactly help.

“If you do not wish to…”

“I cannot leave now,” Yusuf said and took a step closer. “But I have also never danced a waltz before so I do hope you can profess more experience in that regard.”

Di Genova swallowed, nodded, and then reached out ever so slowly, his one hand sliding around Yusuf’s waist, the other taking his in a firm grip. 

_Oh_. Yusuf was uncertain where to put his other hand, actually, but he looked at the others around him and went for resting it on Di Genova’s shoulder.

“You will have to hold on more tightly than that,” Di Genova said and they were far closer than was proper, even for a dance. “The music will change in tempo.”

Yusuf nodded and dug his fingers in a little more. They waited in silence a few more moments before the music started and then everyone moved as one. 

He did his best not to step on Di Genova’s toes but the more he looked down, the more trouble he had. Di Genova did not complain – Yusuf supposed the pain, if there was any, was temporary – but after their first turn around the room, his hand slipped from Yusuf’s waist and his fingers grasped his chin.

Yusuf sucked in a breath. Di Genova lifted Yusuf’s face so that they were looking each other in the eyes. They had not stopped moving. Yusuf had not stepped on him.

“Allow me to lead you,” Di Genova said, “You will learn it quickly.”

Yusuf did not trust himself to speak. Di Genova’s hand went back to his waist, hot like a brand even through the layers of his caftan and tunic, and Yusuf did not think he had ever been so aware of a dance partner in his life. Di Genova’s eyes were green, certainly; he had noticed that, before; but they reflected the candlelight they danced past as though they were glass, and Yusuf wondered if, even after the dance was over, he would be able to look away.

The music slowed and still they danced. After the second turn around the room, Yusuf found himself moving in the same manner he had in their fight several weeks ago; he did not have to think about what he was doing – all he had to do was react to Di Genova, and watch as Di Genova reacted to him in turn.

He thought of asking about Merrick but could not bring himself to shatter the moment, and he thought he should be more concerned about that but could not bring himself to worry about that, either. The room had narrowed to himself and Di Genova, his green-glass eyes and aquiline nose, the softening at the edge of his mouth that Yusuf had not noticed in any of their previous interactions.

All too soon, the dance was over, and Yusuf let go almost reluctantly, noticing – hoping? – that Di Genova did the same. Di Genova put his hands neatly behind his back, dropping his head in a short bow. Yusuf’s heart raced. He was not sure why. 

“I– Thank you for the dance,” he said. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Di Genova replied. He paused for a moment, like he had something else to say and Yusuf was eager to hear it, fought himself not to step forward as though he had a right to be that close. 

“Why did you dance with Merrick?” Di Genova asked, finally, and the illusion Yusuf had built for himself shattered in an instant.

He swallowed his disappointment, the sudden, sharp stab of loss. “My sister did not wish to dance with him,” he replied and prided himself on the fact that, at least, that was not a lie. “I asked him before she would be forced into a position where she could not refuse.” 

Di Genova nodded and he looked as though he knew there was more to it – he had to _know_ there was more to it, Yusuf thought – and so Yusuf conjured up the tightest of smiles, ducked his own bow in return. “If you will excuse me, signor.”

“Of course.” 

Yusuf left the hall without looking for the Le Livres, without seeking out Nile. He wished to be as alone as he could be in this house full of people, if only so he could bury whatever Di Genova had sparked within him and grieve it in private.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun facts i found out about regency balls when doing minimal research for this chapter:
> 
> they were usually held on nights with full moons so that people could get to them  
> they started around 8pm and finished at whatever-o'clock in the morning  
> when looking up drinks: 'only gentlemen drank port' which lol like you would fight andy on that


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected guests arrive. Yusuf confronts Di Genova.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will be back to posting at a normal time tomorrow (hopefully!). also yeah this is a bit short sadly but hopefully still fun!

Hours later and Yusuf had still not managed to catch Monsieur or Mademoiselle le Livre alone. The monsieur had danced thrice more with Nile, to the apparent consternation of many an eligible woman of Meryton (as well as their mothers) but Mademoiselle le Livre was nowhere to be seen and, considering the way she had looked at him when Merrick had appeared, Yusuf had not tried especially hard to find her again. 

Monsieur le Livre should have been the one to speak with, then; except when he was not dancing with Nile, he was speaking to Di Genova and Yusuf could not face them both. He did not wish for Di Genova to be part of the conversation, regardless, but after their dance he was even less inclined to allow that.

So he found himself, instead, doing his best to round up his missing family members. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman had been partaking in the punch and was lying across a small settee in one of the reception rooms; Eli was sitting with her, clearly only half listening to what she was saying, and Karima looked a second away from passing out on Eli’s other side.

Nile rushed back in, frowning in annoyance. “I can’t find baba or Leyla anywhere.” 

Yusuf got to his feet. He could find the Le Livres now, he supposed, but his family members were tired. Perhaps it would be better for he and Nile to talk this all over tonight; she could always write to Le Livre and request a discussion without Di Genova being present.

“Baba will be in the library. I’ll find Leyla.”

Nile nodded and they both left the room; she headed left and Yusuf walked right. He had last seen Leyla chatting to a few young women who were of a similar age – but he could not remember all of their names and could not recall, therefore, if they had already left.

He looked in a few rooms but could not see her; when he reached the door to the kitchens, he paused. She would not go there, he thought, but as he turned away, he saw a familiar figure approaching.

“Monsieur le Livre.”

“Mr Al-Kaysani,” the monsieur returned with a smile, “Are you and your family leaving?”

“Yes, I am just searching for Leyla and then we will–” He paused. “I had a matter I wished to discuss with you, actually.”

“Oh yes?” Le Livre’s eyes sparkled with amusement, knowing, and Yusuf could not figure out why. “Well, I am all ears, sir.”

The door to the kitchen opened and they both turned – Yusuf thought, as a servant looked out, bowing to them both, that they could not have the discussion here–

And then something seized the servant by the shoulders and he shrieked as he was dragged back into the kitchens.

Yusuf drew his saif. Le Live was looking about; there were rapiers on the wall and he pulled one down with ease.

“I should get Di Genova,” he said. 

“There’s no time,” Yusuf replied and strode over to the door, pulling it open.

The kitchens were dimly lit, as though several candles had been extinguished, and Yusuf took the iron-wrought stairs down carefully, Le Livre at his back. He could make out shapes, still, and when his boots hit the floor and the first zombie rushed him, its throat met his blade in an instant. 

They were surrounded but Yusuf was pleased to note that Le Livre fought as well as Di Genova; what was odd was that many of the zombies were small, slight things, and Yusuf had to make sure to compensate for that. 

One grabbed at his caftan but Yusuf removed its head and behind him, he heard Le Livre do the same, heard the thump of another body hitting the flagstones. 

“There are too many of them,” Le Livre said. “You should go find Di Genova.”

“It does not matter if you do not _stay_ dead; you cannot stop them if you are down for even a moment.”

Le Livre growled out a reply, then let out a cry of alarm. Yusuf kicked another zombie back, into the counter and turned to look at him.

He had been dragged back and a zombie was biting into his shoulder, his throat. Blood spilled down his front and his borrowed rapier clattered to the floor.

Yusuf took three steps forward and sliced across the zombie’s arm, loosening its grip. Le Livre fell and Yusuf destroyed the zombie, cutting it down and stamping firmly on its skull. Bone shattered beneath his boot.

When he looked over, Le Livre had propped himself up against a counter and still, Yusuf was incredibly aware that there were more zombies in the room.

“Leave,” Le Livre said. “I will be just a… a moment.” 

His head lolled to the side and Yusuf felt bereft for a moment; there was the expected fear and grief at seeing someone he had known die, but it was oddly offset by the fact that Yusuf knew Le Livre could come _back._

He heard a shuffling sound behind him and spun back around. Deeper shadows indicated the zombies, a dozen or so still remaining. Several candles still remained in this part of the kitchen and when one zombie stepped forward, Yusuf could see it properly.

It was young – had been young, when it had been alive – male and gangly, in that way that teenagers often were. Yusuf stared, horrified. “You were Mrs Beechum’s orphans.”

“We were, Mr Al-Kaysani.” 

Yusuf readied his saif. “How did you get in here?”

“Our new friend showed us the way in.” He smiled; his face was already half-rotted and Yusuf did not have to think hard to deduce who the new friend was.

It explained why Merrick had attended the ball tonight. It explained why he had vanished so rapidly after their dance and had said he would leave England.

Perhaps… Perhaps Di Genova was less involved with Merrick than Yusuf had thought.

He had no time to think anything else. Le Livre was still not awake and the zombies charged; Yusuf cut down the first but another grabbed at his caftan, hauling him to one side. He side-stepped a bite, swallowed down the urge to gag at the smell of decay and sliced open another throat, another–

A noise caught his attention, but he did not dare look away from the undead surrounding him. Only– Heads rolled and Yusuf dispatched another, caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Di Genova. Le Livre was back on his feet, at least, though he did not seem to quite have his bearings yet. 

It did not matter. He did not need them. Di Genova moved like no one Yusuf had ever seen; it was clear their bout in the woods had been child’s play to him. He took down two zombies in one swipe, blood spraying in an arc around him and Yusuf suddenly found it difficult to catch his breath.

Thick fingers curled in his caftan, pulling him back, and Yusuf let out a surprised yelp. He drove an elbow backwards, pulled himself free, and destroyed the zombie quickly. He could not look at Di Genova. It would get him killed.

They killed the remaining zombies between them, cutting them down one by one, though Yusuf was almost certain that some had escaped the same way that they had entered, and in the aftermath, he was almost overcome with exhaustion. He sagged back against the counter behind him, mentally cataloguing if he had been injured. There would be bruises, tomorrow, but he had not been bitten.

Di Genova turned to him then, his gaze almost feverish, and Yusuf wanted to move when the man stalked over to him but his legs stayed firmly rooted to the ground.

The sword at his throat was a surprise. As was seeing Di Genova from this angle; Yusuf was leaning in such a way that he had to look up and he found Di Genova completely unreadable.

Le Livre let out a sound next to them.

“Were you bitten?” Di Genova asked and Yusuf turned the implications of the question over in his mind. 

Di Genova would kill him, of course, should he say yes. Yusuf could not begrudge a man for that. And yet, he disliked _something_ about this; the fact that Di Genova had not hesitated, perhaps; the fact that he did not seem as though he would, for one second, struggle with the decision.

Yusuf thought about Nile, about the way she had to beg him to do it and then had thanked him in Arabic, so gently, and swallowed.

“Were you bitten?” Di Genova said again, pressing closer and Yusuf finally shook his head.

“No! No, one grabbed me and I killed it.”

They did not look away from one another, Di Genova’s gaze so deep, so searching, but Yusuf felt no warmth from it. He pushed himself up from the counter and Di Genova let him, pulling his sword back and sheathing it.

“Are you quite alright?” Yusuf asked Le Livre, if only because he did not trust himself to speak to Di Genova at this moment. 

They had both caused this, he realised, in a sudden stark moment of clarity. Di Genova via whatever connection he had with Merrick. He for inviting the parson along in the first place.

“I am fine, thank you,” Le Livre said. He looked between them and then smiled ruefully. “You should have left me here.”

Yusuf shrugged. Tiredness was seeping into his bones and he hoped Eli and Nile would be willing to keep an eye out for zombies on the return journey to Longbourn. He did not wish to remain in Netherfield overnight, even though he knew it would not be an unreasonable request.

“And what kind of person would I be if I did?” Yusuf replied. He rubbed a hand over his face. “If you would both excuse me, I was trying to find my sister.”

Le Livre nodded and, after a long moment, Di Genova stepped back, allowing Yusuf to pass. He made it to the stairs and paused; both men looked at him expectantly.

“Your abilities as a warrior are beyond reproach, Signor di Genova,” Yusuf said, “If only you were as skilled at understanding people.”

Di Genova frowned. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Merrick showed the zombies the way in tonight,” Yusuf said. He was finished with dancing around this; he wanted a clear line between them. “His tame zombies he feeds pigs’ brains to; besides, it is not as if he has not caused trouble at Netherfield before.” 

Di Genova and Le Livre exchanged a look. “What do you mean?” Le Livre asked but Yusuf ignored him.

“He called you a friend,” Yusuf said and almost lost his balance at the shocked hurt that crossed Di Genova’s face. The depth to it astounded him; whatever the relationship between Di Genova and Merrick, it had been a profound connection. “If you are a friend to him, then you are a danger to my family. To Nile. And I told you, before, what I would do if you hurt her.”

Di Genova said nothing. He stared at Yusuf as though he was not seeing him; rather, he was seeing something else, _someone_ else, in his place. 

Le Livre was watching Di Genova and he looked so concerned that, for a moment, Yusuf thought he had missed something terribly important.

The moment passed. Yusuf left the kitchen, and Di Genova, behind.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf tells Nile everything. Nicolò, Sebastien and Andromache head to France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning: a zombie chows down on poor nicky this chapter (just for a sec) so if you're not here for that, skip from 'Nicolò twisted...' to 'He turned back' (two paragraphs).

The next day, Yusuf woke late and lay still, letting the dull aches of the previous night’s battle soak into his bones. He had not spoken to Nile the night before; by the time he had made it back to the reception room, she had located his father and Leyla and they all had been concerned by the blood on his clothes, the heavy way he was dragging his feet.

Nile had bundled him up into the carriage and he had dozed on the way home, resting his head on her shoulder. Once inside, he had barely managed to change into his nightclothes before he was crawling into bed, falling almost instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

That was last night. This was now.

Now, Yusuf did not wish to move. He was ready to explain to Nile all that he had witnessed, all that Merrick had told him, but she would almost certainly ask why he had not told her earlier, why they had not embarked on his mission to speak with the Le Livres together.

He had no answer for her. Nothing beyond the fact that he had wanted to protect her and that rang hollow now; he meant it, certainly, but he saw the way it irritated her and knew she would not accept it.

Yusuf groaned and, slowly, climbed out of bed. His muscles were stiff and he did his best to take a turn about the room, warming himself up slowly. 

He should be more concerned about Merrick but instead found himself thinking on Di Genova. Remembering their dance brought heat to his cheeks, made his heart race. Remembering what he had said – and in the stark light of day, he was not certain he had been entirely correct – made his stomach drop.

Di Genova had said nothing to him in return. Yusuf did not know if that was a sign of his guilt or not.

He washed up and dressed, deciding to forgo lunch. Instead, he made his way up to Longbourn’s battlements. The air was turning cold, wind ruffling his curls, but Yusuf only had eyes for Nile, who was already there, leaning against the parapets. 

She had a letter in her hand and smiled faintly when she saw him.

“Mama was sure you would die,” she said. She did not sound all that serious.

“I made it,” Yusuf replied. “Monsieur le Livre was the only one who was harmed.”

Nile looked at him sharply. “He was?”

“He is fine, Nile,” Yusuf said. It was better not to mention the sick jolt he had felt when he had seen the zombie’s teeth at Le Livre’s throat. As terrifying and undoubtedly painful as the whole thing had been, at least the man was alive now.

“They are leaving,” Nile said in response and it took Yusuf a moment to realise she had changed the subject.

“What?”

She held out the letter. Yusuf took it, scanning it quickly. 

“This is from Mademoiselle le Livre.”

“Yes. They are closing up Netherfield today, after the attack and all. She had a servant deliver this letter to me and another to mama and baba. They are leaving Hertfordshire and going back to the continent.”

“Why?”

“She says to ask you,” Nile said and her voice was flat. “I do not know what has been written in the other letter.”

She was not wrong; Apolline le Livre had written, in a delicate hand: _As to the motives behind our rapid departure, ask your brother. He appears to know everything, although my advice to him would be to ensure the knowledge he has is true or he may one day hurt someone he truly cares about._

Yusuf winced. Nile reached over and tugged the letter out of his suddenly lax grip. 

“What happened, Yusuf? What have you been hiding from me?” 

He took a deep breath, and he told her. About Merrick, about the church, the zombies, all of it. Nile listened in rapt silence and, when he’d finished, she leant back against the parapet, stared up at the sky.

“You went back to the church, didn’t you?”

“Yes. The zombies were all gone.”

“And Merrick?”

“After last night, I think he has left England. Nile, he did not know about you, I swear it–”

“No, he thought it was _you_ ,” Nile hissed. “You put yourself in danger time and time again Yusuf, and for what? Do you think no one else can defend themselves? You said Sebastien died last night, what do you think would have happened had Di Genova not shown up?”

Yusuf shook his head. “I–”

“Don’t! At the very least, you should have told _me,_ Yusuf. You should have told me because I am the reason Merrick was attempting to ingratiate his way into our family and you should have told me because I would have been perfectly capable of dealing with him. It is… it is almost as though you trust no one but yourself and you forget…”

She fell silent and she was not looking at him now; she was staring at the stone beneath their feet.

“I forget what?”

Nile looked up and her eyes were wet. “You forget that I will not be able to rely on you my _entire_ life. I know you have spent the last year berating yourself for what happened to me but I have spent the last year doing my best to come to terms with the fact that one day I will have to leave, that I will never see any of you again and that that is going to be my life over and over and over–”

Her voice broke on a sob and Yusuf pulled her into his arms. She flung hers about his neck and he held her, blinking back his own tears, until the worst of it had subsided. 

“I didn’t want them to leave,” she said against his shoulder. “I was not ready to leave everyone but I wanted the chance to get to know them.”

“I know,” Yusuf said, though he was not quite sure he had until this moment. “I am sorry.”

She let go with some reluctance, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “Well, there is nothing to be done about it now,” she said finally and if her voice was not as confident as she wished it to be, Yusuf was not about to mention it. “We have to make sure things are safe, here.”

Yusuf nodded and when she turned to look out across the land that made up their estate, he did the same. They had a duty here and he did his best to ignore the voice that told him Nile was ready for so much more.

***

Andromache had declared they were leaving the morning after the ball. None of the guests had stayed the night – because of the attack, Nicolò supposed – and he, at least, had not slept a wink. 

It was not as though he had died once, discovered that he would not stay dead, and had eschewed all chances of a normal life. He had spent years at a time living a regular, day-to-day existence, had gone decades without lifting his sword.

Things had changed with the plague and the zombies that followed. Merrick was a recent development but _he_ had changed Nicolò too, and he was not sure it was for the better.

He had, also, clearly lied to Yusuf about their history with one another; not that Nicolò had expected anything else. Nothing he had seen of any of the Al-Kaysanis suggested they would tolerate a man who was inclined to torture, and yet he had hoped that Yusuf would glean the truth, somehow. 

She called them into a reception room not long after the sun had risen and Nicolò could not bring himself to be irritated by the concerned looks Sebastien was giving him; both Sebastien and Andromache had made their feelings regarding Yusuf quite clear the night before, after all. Sebastien had been saddened, apologetic for his ministrations regarding the dance; he had, above all, been worried that Nile somehow had fallen prey to Merrick too, though Nicolò had at least managed to reassure him he did not believe that to be the case.

Andromache had called Yusuf an arrogant fool and Nicolò had seen the fire in her eyes. She knew Nicolò was hurt. She knew, too, that he would not blame Yusuf for that.

He was not quite sure if that was a failing on his part, but he found he did not really care.

“I could not find Merrick last night,” she said, “But it seems apparent why – if he let the zombies into Netherfield, then he would have made a fast exit. I hate to ask, Nicolò, but do you know where he might go?”

Nicolò thought for a moment. “He mentioned having a property in France, once,” he said. “I do not think he would stay in the country, not when all three of us have seen him.”

“Do you think he might bluff?” Sebastien asked. “If we leave Nile unprotected…”

Andromache did not snort, but it was a near thing. Nicolò knew she already cared for Nile, in her own way; she simply did not care for her brother. “I do not think so,” Nicolò replied. “For one thing, he knows the family are all trained. He is a lot of things, but an especially skilled fighter is not one of them.”

They both nodded at this answer and Andromache crossed her arms over her chest. “I will send letters to Longbourn,” she said, finally. “When she decides the time is right, Nile can come and find us; we cannot remain here.”

All three agreed, though something weighed heavy in Nicolò’s heart. He was so tired and yet could not relax even as Andromache went to write her letters and Sebastien took to the servants, began closing up the house. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered seeing Merrick in the hall, remembered the way Yusuf had yielded so easily when Nicolò had lifted his chin, remembered the sick feeling when he had entered the kitchen to see Sebastien on the floor, Yusuf surrounded–

He remembered the last strings of the dance, Yusuf’s eyes burning into his, being able to hear almost nothing else over the thudding of his own pulse. He had not wanted to let go and, for a sharp, selfish moment, he had wanted to retain Yusuf’s attention like that, on him, forever.

Only, they did not have forever, did they? Never mind that Nicolò knew, already, that his own situation was not permanent; Andromache had seen her own compatriots eventually lose this gift they had been given; Yusuf was mortal. His life, his time, it was already slipping through Nicolò’s fingers. 

They rode for France two days later. Three weeks after that, they were still there, chasing leads that appeared to be bringing them no closer to Merrick. 

It did not help that the zombie scourge was, in many ways, worse on the continent than in England. England had its natural barrier – zombies could, in no way, be considered proficient swimmers – and had managed to beat the vast majority of its hordes back. They found themselves fighting more often than not, which Nicolò did not mind; he felt useful and it distracted his mind.

They were fighting now not far from Bordeaux – the great forest nearby was a perfect hiding place for zombies – and Nicolò had lost track of Sebastien and Andromache some time before. A horde had burst from the trees as the day turned to dusk and now they were fighting by torchlight, trying not to slip in the bloody mud the ground had become.

Nicolò’s arms ached from swinging his longsword but he did not slow; around him he heard the screams of men and women as they were caught out and killed and he was not certain that some of those rising up against him were not people he had been fighting alongside, at the beginning.

Another zombie loomed out of the darkness and as Nicolò sliced across its stomach, something grabbed him from behind. The youth on his left, who had been cursing everything from God to his neighbour’s horse since the fighting had begun, swung at the zombie that had Nicolò but then the other lunged for him and Nicolò could not blame him for his shift in attention.

He fought, himself; he pulled a dagger from his waistband and aimed for the neck, but the zombie’s grip did not loosen. He did not panic, but it was a near thing; dying in a zombie battle was the worst way, in current years, as rising from the masses simply meant he would be hunted down. It would drive them out of Bordeaux and the surrounding area, for certain, and they still had a lot of searching to do.

Nicolò twisted, nearly freeing himself from the zombie’s grip but, when it bit down on his arm, he did his best not to make a sound. It would tear flesh from him, in places, before going for his head, but Nicolò rather hoped to be rid of it before that. 

When it lifted its head, bringing with it a not-insignificant chunk of Nicolò’s arm, he struck; he swung his sword around with one hand and pulled himself from the zombie’s grip once the blade was embedded in its neck. It took some effort to pull the blade free again, but then he removed the zombie’s head entirely and watched as its body crumpled to the ground.

He turned back and the youth was watching him with dark, wary eyes. Nicolò looked to his arm; his tunic was torn open, blood-soaked, but there was clearly not a mark on him.

“Qu’es-tu?” he hissed and Nicolò took a few careful steps back. 

The fighting went on around them and when Nicolò did not lunge for him, the youth relaxed, if marginally. Nicolò wanted to say he was no one, or at least no one to worry about, but then they were fighting again and that was all they did until the sun came up.

With light on their side, the rest of the battle was over quickly and when Nicolò looked about a few hours later, the youth was gone.

He made his way back toward the nearest village, realising that these zombies were not any proof Merrick was nearby; and he almost tripped over one of the bodies – he was not sure why this one or, later, what made him stop and look.

It was the youth. His head had been removed from his body, of course, glassy-eyed and pale. Nicolò closed his eyes as more sadness poured in to the deep well of his grief. Could he do this forever? For the next ten years, even, rather than the next hundred, thousand?

Did he _want_ to? He could not pretend that his and Yusuf’s relationship had been more than it was – it had seemed, most of the time, that Yusuf wanted to kill him more than anything else – and yet, Nicolò was sure that, eventually, it could have bloomed into something beautiful.

He turned his face to the sky when he realised he was almost crying, his breaths coming fast and shallow. All he had was time and yet he did not feel, any more, that he was using it wisely. It had been three weeks since he had last seen Yusuf and it felt like years; he should not have been able to get under Nicolò’s skin so easily and still, here Nicolò was, surrounded by corpses and, to his shame, mourning the loss of a relationship that had never existed.

Perhaps it was all catching up to him. Perhaps he should have turned tail and run at the first sight of Merrick; he could have spent the next century in Asia and would not have had to worry about the man at all.

An arm was flung around his shoulders and Sebastien pulled him close. “Come,” he said, with the soft tone he only ever used when speaking to small children. “Andromache is waiting for us.”

She was waiting, in the small cottage they had taken residence in, and Nicolò saw her single bag was already packed, sitting by her feet.

“We are going back to England,” she said.

“Why?” Nicolò asked. “We cannot be sure Merrick is there; just because we have not found a trace of him here–”

“We are not chasing him. Not right now.” She looked around the cottage and, for a second, seemed almost nervous. Then she sighed, tossed her head and Nicolò knew he would agree with whatever she said.

“We are going back to give you both a chance to heal.” 

Sebastien frowned. “We are healed. We always heal.”

Her smile was indulgent. “Our bodies heal, Sebastien. You will learn that our minds do not. At least, not as quickly. Whatever happened at Netherfield, you are both not healed from it. Nicolò, you need time to deal with Merrick, what happened before…” 

She trailed off but she was not wrong. Telling them both had lifted a weight from his shoulders, but not all of it – he still felt, most days, as though he had betrayed them all; he felt as though he had left Nile open to attack from the start. He did not know that rest would help that, rather than hunting Merrick down like the animal he was, but he trusted Andromache.

“Where we will go?” Sebastien asked. “Back to Netherfield?”

He sounded almost hopeful.

“No. I have another house; I have not been there in years and I suppose I am technically playing the part of my own niece, now, but it is open and we will all be welcome. I will send word ahead. We’ll leave in the morning.”

“Where is it?” Nicolò asked. His voice was hoarse and Andromache’s smile was sad.

“Rosings Park,” she said, and laughed. “Gentlemen, say hello to Lady Andrea de Bourgh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: ah, it's saturday, i can get this chapter up nice and early  
> me: (sees venom is on netflix)  
> me: (watches venom)  
> me: (reads uh a few fanfics)  
> me, at 2am: oh s h i t
> 
> honestly it's a gd miracle i'm still getting these out before i fall asleep 😅 still reading all comments so tysm! will be sitting and replying to them allllll tomorrow i promise!


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò visits Longbourn. Yusuf makes a decision.

Nicolò was restless. It was not an unusual feeling – over seven hundred years of existence meant that very few emotions were completely new – but what _was_ unusual, this time, was the cause.

Rosings Park was not especially close to Longbourn, at least a half a day’s ride away, and yet Nicolò felt as though Yusuf was within arm’s reach. What he had thought and felt in France – it was nothing compared to how he felt here, where every time he trained or took a ride around Rosings, he thought of nothing but the other man.

Except when he slept. His dreams were still plagued with Merrick; some nights, it was as though he was back in that tiny room in Italy, bound and helpless and _hurting,_ incessantly, because Merrick knew he could not stay dead but he also knew that Nicolò was not possessed with some superhuman strength, that pain would still weigh heavy on his mind, even if it came and went within minutes.

Sebastien had taken to watching him in the evenings when they were all playing cards or sitting around the fireplace. Andromache was less obvious but Nicolò could read her well, knew that she was still concerned.

He had no way of explaining to them why he could not get Yusuf out of his mind. He had no way of explaining it to himself.

Things came to a head a month or so after their return to England; Nicolò was training with Sebastien, Andromache watching from the side-lines, and when Nicolò became distracted, suddenly – though he was not sure of the exact thought that caught his attention – Sebastien leapt into his lowered guard, drew his sword across Nicolò’s chest. 

Blood poured from the shallow wound and Nicolò winced at the sting. Already it was healing, skin knitting back together but Andromache cursed them both, all the same.

“Do you forget we are not alone here?” she hissed at Sebastien. “You should have seen he was not paying attention!”

Sebastien let out a frustrated sound. “It is not _my_ fault Nicolò is so distracted,” he retorted. “You would have seen that coming! He should have!”

Nicolò ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He had to find a solution to this _now,_ before his friends suffered even further.

“You should have seen it coming,” Andromache said and there was steel in her voice. 

“I should have,” he agreed. His mind was already spinning, and though the idea was laughable, perhaps; certainly borne of fantasy, it might just be the thing to draw a line under most of the events that had come to pass since their initial arrival in Netherfield.

“Give me two days,” he said. “Two days and when I return I will be better, one way or the other.”

Sebastien opened his mouth, presumably to ask what Nicolò intended to do but Andromache shook her head. Did she already know? 

“Be careful, Nicolò,” she said. 

“I will be.”

***

He rode out the next morning, stopping once to eat the lunch Sebastien had pressed into his hands before he had left. He managed a few bites but when faced with the enormity of what he was about to do, he felt as though he might throw it back up again.

Andromache and Sebastien would likely not be pleased if they knew the full extent of what he was planning, but for once he was not thinking of them. He was not thinking of Nile, their newest, youngest member, a girl they had left so carelessly behind.

He was not thinking of how quickly this spark of happiness he had found could be – _would be_ – extinguished and he was certainly not thinking of the grief he knew was sure to follow on its heels. 

He climbed back on his horse and thought, instead, of the way Yusuf had thrown his own short-tempered words back at him, Italian rolling off his tongue; the way he had fought, protected them all; the way he had looked at Nicolò after the dance, hope tempered by distrust but still… present.

It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at Longbourn and Nicolò could not bring himself to go directly up to the house. Instead, he rode out to the nearby lake he had discovered upon his arrival at Netherfield, the one he had been returning from when he had met Yusuf for the first time.

There was a summer house there, in some amount of disrepair, and Nicolò tied up his horse nearby, set to pacing. He had no idea how to broach the subject, he realised with a sudden, cold jolt; he had thought of the myriad of ways in which Yusuf might react but had not practised his own words.

Words. He was not known for his skill with them and yet he must rely on them now. Perhaps he should have divulged his idea to Sebastien, at least. He went through seasons of romance and nihilism both, but when he was romantic, he turned to poetry and, from what Nicolò had seen, he was indeed highly skilled at it.

“Mr Al-Kaysani,” he tried and it was the way he was supposed to address Yusuf but he felt it raised another barrier between them. “Yusuf,” he said, quietly, some of the words starting to fall into place in his mind.

Behind him, his horse snorted but Nicolò paid him no mind. He had to try this once, get it right once, and then he would go find him.

“Yusuf, I–”

A branch snapped and Nicolò whirled around, drawing his sword. He met another blade, started, and stepped back.

The object of his – deep, impossible – affection looked back at him, expressionless except for one lifted eyebrow.

“Signor di Genova,” Yusuf said. “What are you doing here?”

***

Yusuf had not meant to sneak up on Di Genova. He had walked to the lake on a whim; summer was ending, now, and he had wanted to sit and look out over the water, spend some time alone.

There had been no sign of Merrick for months and Nile had heard nothing from Le Livre, though neither of these truths were particularly unexpected to Yusuf. He had done his best to track down Merrick without leaving Longbourn or Meryton; his father had been the one to tell him about St Lazarus, a church in the In Between that had been overrun when the zombies had massacred all the villagers, before all but one of the bridges to London were blown. 

Yusuf did not know if Merrick was there now. He had gone back and forth on the idea of writing to Le Livre himself, to tell him that this was another place to search, but when he had brought the idea up to Nile, she had looked at him oddly. Merrick had said he was leaving England, she had reminded him. If he was hiding, the continent was safer than a church Yusuf knew about.

It was why Yusuf was heading to the summer house. He needed to think everything through, to decide whether he and Nile should head to St Lazarus, or if he should tell the army, or if he should write to Le Livre.

Only, he heard a voice as he approached. Heard, “Mr Al-Kaysani,” and stopped in his tracks. He drew his saif, silently, and when he saw the horse, heard, “Yusuf,” in that soft, rolling tone, his heart leapt and he fought the urge to turn and run.

It was his own weakness that had him still thinking on Di Genova weeks after he had left. He had tried only to focus on Nile, on training their family for the war he was sure to come, but thoughts of Di Genova had intruded, that small doubt that he could be wrong about the man.

“Yusuf, I–” Di Genova said and Yusuf took a step forward without meaning to, wincing when a branch snapped under his boot.

Di Genova spun around and Yusuf raised his saif. Their weapons met with a clash that startled the horse but then Di Genova jumped back and Yusuf realised he was, genuinely, surprised. 

“Signor di Genova. What are you doing here?”

Di Genova sheathed his sword and, for a moment, he did not appear to know what to say. Yusuf stepped into the summer house proper and sheathed his saif. He doubted the man was there to kill him.

“I had to see you,” Di Genova said. Yusuf looked at him sharply. There was no guile, only earnestness in his eyes.

“Me?”

His heart stuttered in his chest. That softness from their dance, he felt it again, and it was warm enough to melt away his fears.

For a moment.

“I have… I have fought against my better judgment, against my family’s doubts; your fragility, your circumstances, all of those things… My feelings will not be repressed. In vain, I have struggled but I realise that I have come to feel for you a most ardent admiration and regard that has overcome my better judgement.” He was breathing hard, his pulse fluttering in his throat and Yusuf fought to keep his face expressionless. “So now I must ask you, most fervently, to end my turmoil and consent to be my husband.”

Yusuf was, for perhaps the first time in his life, completely without words. _This_ was what Di Genova had come to ask? He did not know whether to laugh or be insulted. 

Well, no, he was certainly insulted.

“If I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot. I never desired your good opinion and you’ve certainly bestowed it quite unwillingly.” 

Di Genova seemed surprised and Yusuf was not sure why that should be the case. He had never indicated that he would be open to a proposal – he had certainly not been expecting it.

“Might I be informed why, with so little civility, I am being rejected?” 

“When you discovered Merrick was here, you ran, and left my most beloved sister behind to defend herself.” Never mind that Merrick had said he was leaving England. Di Genova did not know that.

Silence. Di Genova opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Do you deny it?” Yusuf asked.

“I do not deny it. We left Nile behind and, yes, it was because of Merrick.”

Yusuf’s temper flared. He knew, then, he _knew_ what he had done and still he had the _arrogance_ to come here and ask for Yusuf’s hand? As though he were doing some kind of favour?

Yusuf drew his saif, spinning it in his hand before he tightened his grip. Di Genova stared at him for a moment before he, too, drew his sword.

“How could you?” Yusuf said and struck.

Di Genova met the blow, parrying it and pushing Yusuf back. “I had to protect my family.”

“She will be your family!” Yusuf attacked again, trying to slash under Di Genova’s guard; Di Genova pushed him back again and Yusuf growled. This was less satisfying if Di Genova was not fighting back.

“Did you leave her here so that Merrick would find her? Did you tell him she was the immortal, not me?”

Di Genova scowled at that and his next blow came fast, heavy. Yusuf pressed forward still and this time when their blades met, they were almost pressed up against each other, faces inches apart.

“I would never,” Di Genova ground out. “I would defend her with my life.”

“And what does that mean? When you have lived one lifetime, twenty, hundreds; what does it mean to me that you would deign to spare one for her?”

Di Genova pushed him back again but this time he dropped his sword to the ground. Yusuf grinned and threw his saif aside and when Di Genova swung at him, he ducked, charging forwards. He caught Di Genova around the middle and they both landed, hard, on the floor of the summer house.

For a moment, they were frozen, Yusuf holding Di Genova down by the shoulders, Di Genova still beneath him. 

“It should mean everything,” he said quietly. “It is what we do for one another. It is all we _can_ do for one another.” 

He did not understand. Nile had died in front of him and Yusuf had thought she would never wake again and he knew, without a doubt, he would die, too, for every single member of his family. It was a final act, for him. What did it matter to die, knowing that it was not permanent?

Something of it must have shown on his face; Di Genova’s legs wrapped around his waist and he rolled them. Suddenly, he had Yusuf pinned by the wrists and Yusuf did his best to push back, pulse stuttering when Di Genova’s eyes traced down the length of his torso.

“Is this your opinion of me? Arrogant? Selfish?” Di Genova frowned. “Then I thank you for explaining it so fully.”

Yusuf flexed his arms again, but Di Genova would not be moved. He forced himself to look Di Genova in the eyes and ignored the voice in his head – the one that always sounded somewhat like Nile – that warned him against speaking again.

“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. I had not known you a week before I knew you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

Di Genova stared at him, his eyes searching Yusuf’s before they trailed down to his mouth. Yusuf lifted his chin. Di Genova swayed toward him, ever so slightly, and he knew he should push him off, get up and walk away with some of his dignity intact, but instead, he wondered how Di Genova’s lips might feel on his, the warmth, the weight, the taste of him–

Di Genova blinked, sucked in a breath, and the spell was broken. “Forgive me, sir, for having taken up so much of your time.”

He let go and stood, bending only to pick up his sword. Yusuf sat up and watched him mount his horse and ride away without a look back.

Once Di Genova had gone, once his entire body had stopped shaking, Yusuf tipped his head back and stared up at the roof of the summer house. Tears burned a path down his face, into his hairline. 

He was right; he was certain he had made the right choice. He simply had not known it would hurt this much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspiration/dialogue stolen from both p&p&z and the kiera knightley p&p for this; mostly that almost-kiss bc for some reason when i went on twitter yesterday that and the hand flex were everywhereeeeee
> 
> also i rewatched p&p&z today, hence the retconning st lazarus in there bc i forgot wickham actually takes lizzy there (though no explanation as to why the pallbearers are hanging out in hertfordshire) and uh it'll be important for the plot later
> 
> also also! i am going to do my best to update daily next week but am working from the office for some of it (which means travelling to the city booooo) so may miss one here and there. will be back on track by the weekend for sure 😉


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò returns to Rosings. Yusuf receives a letter.

Nicolò rode for Rosings overnight, replaying his and Yusuf’s confrontation over and over in his mind. 

He did his best to pinpoint the moment when it had all gone terribly wrong. Perhaps when he had drawn his sword; Yusuf would not have killed him, he was almost certain of that, and even if he had, that would have been an answer.

No, it had been before that. Yusuf should never have been able to sneak up on him in the first place. He had been testing every one of Nicolò’s defences since the day they met, whether he knew it or not.

Ten miles from Rosings, Nicolò stopped his horse and staggered off it, sitting heavily on a patch of grass. His horse snorted, walking a little way away to graze and Nicolò buried his head in his arms. 

What had he expected? He and Yusuf had never shared so much as a kind word; everything was barbed, couched in his own secrecy and Yusuf’s defensiveness. Nicolò had been enchanted by him the moment he had spoken back to Sebastien, had been immediately charmed by the way he so clearly protected his family, but that all meant _nothing_ if Yusuf felt nothing for him in return.

The dance had been a dance. It was time to leave this elaborate fantasy behind and join the real world again. Nicolò lifted his head and took a deep breath. Nevertheless, he was still hurt – the rejection stung, naturally, but it was not just that. Yusuf had fundamentally misunderstood who he was, had believed _Merrick_ , of all people, and although Nicolò was not keen to relive the retelling of what Merrick had done to him, he felt he owed Yusuf this. He owed Nile this. 

Maybe it would help Yusuf to understand. He would take all those deaths he had suffered at Merrick’s hands – and, by God, he had _suffered_ – if it would ensure that Andromache, Sebastien or Nile would never meet the same fate. If going back to that small, dark room would somehow bring back all the people Merrick had dragged in and experimented on and killed, he would do that too. He was not certain he would even fear it if it meant everyone else would be safe.

Nicolò wiped the wetness from his face and his next breath was more even. He would not forget Yusuf, not in a thousand lifetimes, but he would accept his wishes: he would stay away. 

He mounted his horse and for the rest of the ride, his mind still moved, but this time over the words he would write, the only explanation he could possibly give. By the time he arrived at Rosings, orange streaked the horizon and mist had gathered in the fields.

He left his horse with the stableboy, letting himself into the house. Despite having come to terms with it – as much as one could in a few hours – he did not wish to tell Sebastien or Andromache what he had done. Not yet.

Except, she must have already been awake; Andromache stepped out of a side room as he headed for the stairs and gave him a speculative look from head to toe. “Come and sit,” she said and Nicolò knew better than to refuse.

She would simply follow him around until she got the truth out of him.

“Where is Sebastien?” he asked, sinking into the cushions opposite where Andromache had obviously been sitting. There were papers scattered all about and the nearest candle was almost burnt to the wick; she had been here all night.

“Sleeping, I assume,” Andromache replied. She gathered the papers into a messy pile, putting it to one side without really looking at it. Her eyes were only on Nicolò and he was sure she could read him as well as any of the letters she had been through that night.

“You know where I went?”

“Longbourn?” 

Nicolò nodded. They were both silent for a moment. She had already made her thoughts on Yusuf quite clear; it was one of the things that had caused Nicolò to hesitate. Andromache was, quite literally, his oldest friend. He trusted her judgement.

He had wanted Yusuf more.

“I proposed,” he said. 

Andromache’s expression did not change. “And?”

“Do I look as though I have cause to celebrate?” Nicolò said, a little harsher than was necessary. He sighed, looked down at his hands. “My apologies.” 

She waved him off with one hand. “Did you kill him?”

“No!”

“I assumed one of you might kill the other and you do not have any blood on your clothes. What about Nile?”

“What about her?” Nicolò had, unsurprisingly, not thought on her much beyond what Yusuf had said. She knew how to contact Sebastien; he was certain of it.

“Did you see her?”

“No.” 

Andromache hummed. “I am sorry this has happened, Nicolò, but I cannot pretend that I do not think it is for the best. Perhaps you would have had half a century together and been very happy. It would still have only been half a century.” 

Nicolò sighed. She was right, of course, and with her age, she could not help but be somewhat callous about it. He did not blame her for that.

It did not mean he wished to hear it.

“I have a letter to send,” he said, “And then I will leave Rosings. I still have to find Merrick.”

“There is something else we need to do first,” Andromache said. “Sebastien was quite insistent we go to the London front.”

“What has happened?” 

“The palace has fallen. The hordes are sweeping through London; there is a chance they might breach the great wall and make their way to Hingham Bridge.”

“How could they…?”

Andromache’s expression darkened. “It seems as though something may be guiding them.”

“Or someone?”

She nodded. “I suspect Merrick may not have left England after all. Even if we cannot kill him ourselves, we can do our best to trap him, if it comes to that.”

“Alright,” Nicolò replied. “I will tend to what I need to do. Sebastien and I will ride out this afternoon.”

He stood and she reached up, curled her fingers around his wrist gently. “Tonight, Nicolò. Rest first. I will join you in a few days. And remember, time heals all wounds.” 

Nicolò nodded tightly. He left the room and climbed the stairs, her last sentence echoing in his head. He was not sure it was true. Time numbed the dull ache, perhaps, lowered the hazy cloud of forgetfulness; but he knew what it was to heal. He was not sure his heart would ever be entirely whole again.

***

Nile found him as darkness started to creep in. Yusuf had not moved from the summer house; he had grabbed his saif but now was lying on his back, staring up but unseeing.

“Mama thought you had been eaten!” she shouted and when he did not move, he heard her footsteps quicken.

“Yusuf?” Her face was suddenly there, leaning over him. “Are you injured?”

“Not in body,” he said, and she sighed, dropped down beside him. 

“What happened?”

“Signor di Genova proposed.”

They were both silent for a moment.

Then, “I take it from the fact that you appear to be wallowing that you said no?”

Yusuf hit out at her lazily, no power in it. “Of course, I said no! Why on earth would I say anything else?”

Nile rolled onto her side. She propped her head up on her left hand, staring down at him, until Yusuf grumbled and did the same. “Are you not in love with him, then?”

“No.” 

Nile’s eyes searched his face. She smiled, albeit gently. “Well, you should be quite happy to have managed to avoid what would have been an ultimately miserable marriage. Shall we celebrate?”

Yusuf remembered, suddenly, Di Genova hovering over him, the emptiness of his eyes, his voice when he had thanked Yusuf for his time. Yusuf had thought he had sounded unaffected before but now he knew different; the flatness in his voice at the balls, in their previous meetings, had hidden an undercurrent of emotion, something deep and dark and they were depths that now Yusuf would never explore.

He rolled onto his back again. “ _Nile_ ,” he said and followed it up with nothing else.

She took pity on him, though she did not move. “For what it is worth,” she said, “You know I will always support you. Against any of them, if you asked me to. And I am, honestly, surprised that he would come here out of the blue like that. He clearly did not speak to Sebastien before he left.”

“How so?”

Nile laughed. “Because it is quite obvious to anyone with eyes how infatuated he is with you, Yusuf. It is also quite obvious that those feelings were not reciprocated. Sebastien would have encouraged him not to simply hurt himself.”

“Oh.” Yusuf closed his eyes for a moment. What if he was wrong about Merrick? It did not matter; Di Genova had proven nothing of his supposed love. A single dance did not a courtship make.

“Do you want to go back to the house?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Alright,” Nile replied and slid over until she could rest her head on Yusuf’s shoulder. They stayed there until night fell and when they returned to Longbourn, when Yusuf climbed into bed and fell asleep, he dreamt of their dance over and over again.

***

The letter came three days later. Everyone was quite interested; Yusuf so rarely received mail and he never approached it with such evident trepidation. Still, Nile distracted them all and Yusuf climbed to the battlements, staring across the land as though he were searching for zombies for a good hour before he dared break the wax seal.

He knew who had sent it, of course; it was in a different hand to the one Nile had received from Apolline le Livre weeks before and he highly doubted Monsieur le Livre would write him after all that had happened.

The seal had confirmed it. Yusuf opened it finally, mindful of the twisting nervousness in his stomach, and sat back on the bench to read.

_Dear ~~Yusuf~~ Mr Al-Kaysani,_

_I am not writing to renew the sentiments that were so disgusting to you. Rather, I wish to address the offences you accused me of, with the hope that, at least, you can trust that my companions will do their best to take care of your sister, no matter the cost._

_I first met Mr Merrick three years ago. I was in Bergamo, fighting on the zombie front; he told me he was a businessman who had been caught up in the siege. I offered to help him return to England. Our acquaintance lasted several months as I attempted to assist him in finding safe passage; however, I now believe he was using that time to observe me, to confirm a theory he already had in mind._

_He came to me one day and told me that he had found a church full of zombies. An old structure, he said, one that could easily be sealed off. We could burn the zombies inside and it would rid the area of most of the scourge._

_In my arrogance, I did not see this for the trap it was. Merrick captured me and, for the next two years, I remained his prisoner._

Yusuf’s hands were shaking. He did not want to read this, he realised, even as he knew he must. Di Genova had decided to share it with him, to prove _something_ and Yusuf could not dishonour that simply because he was…

Scared.

He took a deep breath and read on.

_Suffice to say, I do not wish to relive the experience in full and it is not because I would do you the insult of suggesting you would not be moved by it. It is simply a period of my life I would much rather forget. However, it is worth mentioning that Merrick had – by his own admission – always been interested in experimentation; be it with zombies or humans or anything else. He saw in me the perfect test subject, until he realised that his experiments would never last. Then I became the perfect toy._

Yusuf threw a hand over his mouth to muffle a sob.

_I escaped, eventually, rather worse for wear but as you so astutely noticed, alive. You were right: no matter how many times, we come back and are made whole again. The truth of it – the whole truth – is somewhat more complicated._

_Merrick had me for two years and, it is true, his compulsive need to ensure I was watched at all times, hurting and out of sorts at all times, did slowly begin to wane. He was assisted in keeping me there by my own lack of fight; seven hundred years is a long time to be alive, Mr Al-Kaysani, and I was alone. I felt as though I could do nothing but observe Merrick’s crimes and wait for him to die._

_You know, do you not, that we dream of one another? When one of us dies, the very first time, we all dream of them. It is a signal that brings us together and tells us how to find one another._

_The night before my escape was the first night I dreamt of your sister._

_Andromache saw her die; she described to me the surroundings and learnt more and more, over the months that followed, about your beloved Longbourn. Sebastien, as you may have guessed, is our youngest brother. He saw some of himself in Nile, in the way she rose to this new challenge in her life._

_I saw you. I saw her beg you to destroy her and I saw you after, your disbelief and your fear and your absolute, unwavering loyalty and love. You were often in our dreams, all three of us, and I confess that I may have allowed that to get the better of me._

_Perhaps, now, you understand why we left when we did. We believed Merrick to be on the continent and we chased after him and, in doing so, left Nile behind. I can only implore you to believe that I would never have left, had I believed Merrick would endanger her – either of you. He told you I was his friend, which has never been the truth; if he had told you we were bonded in blood, in the blood of those victims I did nothing to save, that would have been more accurate._

_I hope this helps explain and perhaps mitigate my behaviour in your eyes. I must also, of course, apologise for the unexpected nature of what I said to you several days hence. I did not think it would be unexpected as I have now found the truest mystery of my long life to be how anyone could meet you and not fall, instantly and irrevocably, in love._

_I do not know when I fell so deeply under your spell, Mr Al-Kaysani. I cannot fix the hour or the spot or the look or the words which lay the foundation. I believe I was in the middle before I knew I began. But I was a proud fool and I have faced the harsh truth: that I cannot hope to win your love in this life – in my life._

_So I have sought solace in atoning for my many sins, in combat; Sebastien and I are heading to the London front. There appears to be a dark hand at work and what are we, if not unduly equipped to fight this?_

_If we should fail to contain the zombies and they breach Hingham Bridge, it will be as though a great dam has broken and they will reach out for us swiftly and in overwhelming numbers._

_My dear Mr Al-Kaysani, I implore you to be ready._

_Yours,_

_Nicolò di Genova._

Yusuf read the letter twice more, stopping only when tears blurred his vision. He did not wish to cry onto the page, did not wish to smudge a word. 

He remained on the battlements as the moon rose and no one came to disturb him; not even Nile, this time. No matter how he turned it over in his mind, there was no solution.

Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicolò di Genova could never be together in this life and the thought sent another sob wracking through Yusuf’s frame.

Perhaps in the next. 

Whenever that would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting so close... to the end of p&p&z! you'll notice we're not especially to the end of what i have planned though 😅


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leyla leaves a letter. Lady de Bourgh visits Longbourn. Yusuf and Nile travel to the London front.

A few days later, Yusuf was riding back from one of the twice-daily patrols he had begun doing of Longbourn’s perimeter when he heard Nile calling for him. He spurred the horse on faster and when she came into view, he realised she looked frantic. She was holding a piece of paper – a letter?

“Nile, what is it?”

“Merrick’s run off with Leyla.”

_What?_ Yusuf all but leapt from the horse, snatching the letter out of her hand. She grabbed the horse’s reins as he scanned the words, then turned back to her again.

“She says he is in receipt of a great fortune?” 

Nile nodded. “He must have lied to her; Yusuf, she worries about all of us, even if she pretends not to. She must have thought, even if she ran off with him, that he would marry her and she could take care of us.”

“Foolish girl,” Yusuf said but there was no heat behind it. None at all, now he looked at the letter, saw the words on the seal.

“These letters,” he said, finally, and Nile came closer to look. “I know where she is.”

They rushed back to the house. Everything was in upheaval, as though Leyla were hiding somewhere within Longbourn’s walls and they would find her if only they dug deeply enough. Yusuf headed straight to the cellar. He needed as many weapons as he could carry.

The seal said St Lazarus. It made sense, of course, that Merrick had been hiding there all along and if not for his own pride, Yusuf would have told Di Genova and the others earlier. 

If he had known then what he knew now…

He tucked Leyla’s note alongside the letter already in his inside pocket, the one that had been burning a hole in it since he had received it. 

The house above him fell silent and Yusuf paused at the sudden stillness. A voice – he could not hear enough to recognise it – and then there were steps on the stair leading down to the cellar.

Someone knocked at the door. Yusuf frowned, opened the hatch.

Apolline le Livre looked in at him. “You have a very small estate,” she said.

Yusuf let out a heavy sigh, closing the hatch again. He opened the door. “And yet we endure it.”

She swept inside and he noticed she was dressed more finely than she had been at Netherfield, though also more practically. Why had she not gone with Di Genova and Le Livre to the front? 

It did not matter. He had perhaps hours to find Leyla; he did not wish for Merrick to test at least one theory he undoubtedly had – that Leyla might be unable to stay dead, too.

“I have urgent business to attend to.”

“A falsehood of the most scandalous nature has reached me,” she said. “That you intend to unite with Signor di Genova. Is this true?”

Yusuf frowned. Had Di Genova not told her? He must have – otherwise, she would not have heard. 

She glanced meaningfully at the door. It was closed, of course, but it was not entirely soundproof.

“I do not possess your frankness, mademoiselle. You may ask questions I may choose not to answer.”

“Your ladyship.”

Yusuf raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“The time I spent with Monsieur le Livre was somewhat of a ruse, to allow me a chance to mingle with the commonfolk of England. You may call me Lady Andrea de Bourgh.”

De Bourgh. Yusuf recognised the name; a Lady Catherine had held Rosings Park before, presumably Lady Andrea’s aunt–

No. Presumably Lady Andrea herself. Apolline.

What had Di Genova called her?

Andromache.

“You have no reason to suppose he made me an offer,” Yusuf said, tacking on a hasty, “Your ladyship,” at the end. 

“Are you engaged to him or not?” She appeared to want to roll her eyes at that and Yusuf’s lips twitched – until he listened to the question.

He fought the urge to reach for the letter in his pocket.

“Not.”

He said it quietly, looked at the flagstones beneath his feet, but when he lifted his head, she appeared almost confused.

Andromache squared her shoulders and shook her head. “Will you promise me never to enter into social engagement with him?”

Was that why she had come? To see for herself, to make sure Di Genova could get far away from someone like Yusuf?

Or, he thought, with a touch more compassion – to protect him. Yusuf would do the same for Nile, after all.

“I will make no such promise,” he said, and her expression was a sudden reflection of the surprise Yusuf felt. He had not meant to say _that._

“Then I shall protect the dignity of a far superior man,” she said and reached for her weapon.

The weapon, Yusuf suddenly realised, was the axe strapped to her back. Was she going to kill him, down here, before he had a chance to get his sister back?

He drew his saif. He needed this over with quickly, one way or another – and he could hear voices growing agitated upstairs; he did not have long before his whole family decided to go hunt for his missing sister.

When Andromache struck, it was nothing like any fight Yusuf had ever known. He managed to get his saif up in time, the blade protecting him from the first blow. But she did not hesitate and she did not give him a chance to slip under her guard. 

She battered him back, blow after blow raining down and it was all Yusuf could do to stop from being hit. He ducked behind one of the columns and she grabbed for him, hauling him around with such strength that Yusuf wondered, for a dazed second, whether that was somehow related to her healing. 

His back hit the stone and he dropped his saif. Her axe was at his throat and they were both breathing hard; she was distracted enough by whatever she was attempting to discern from his features that she did not notice the dagger until he had it pressed against her ribs.

Andromache laughed quietly. “Go ahead,” she said. “If you kill me, you can count it as a victory.”

Instantly, Yusuf recoiled and the knife clattered to the floor. He felt a sharp pain in his neck, only for a moment, and then the axe was out of reach.

He reached up and his fingers came away wet with blood.

“Only a scratch,” Andromache said and when she looked at him, her expression was unreadable again. “You have skill as a warrior, but I can see, now, what drew Nicolò to you.”

She looked at the dagger, on the ground next to his saif and Yusuf could not pretend to understand. 

It did not matter. The door to the cellar burst open and Yusuf’s father was there, Nile just on his heels.

“What’s right to do cannot be done too soon,” Mr Al-Kaysani said, reaching for the weapons Yusuf had already laid out. 

Yusuf quickly sheathed his sword and dagger, rushing over to them.

“Baba, what are you doing?”

“I must find Leyla.”

“You don’t even know where she is!” Nile said. She was dressed for fighting, too; she had intended to come with him all along.

“I do,” Yusuf said and it was enough to make his father stop and look at him. “I promise you; I will not forsake Leyla.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Nile said but Yusuf remembered what Di Genova had written and shook his head. If Merrick felt so desperate as to come and steal away one of his sisters, then it meant things were about to change.

“No, you must stay here to protect Longbourn.”

Nile opened her mouth but Andromache was there, a cool yet steady presence. “Ride at once, both of you. I will take the rest of your family back with me to Rosings. There is no safer place.”

Looking at her, Yusuf could believe it, so he nodded. His father was looking between the three of them as though noticing them for the first time and, ever so gently, Yusuf prised a weapon from his hands.

“Collect your people,” Andromache said to Mr Al-Kaysani. “You two, go. You will find Sebastien and Nicolò where they are most needed, I have no doubt of that.”

Yusuf and Nile set out not long after, while the rest of their family were still gathering their things; they rode hard for London but, upon their arrival at Hingham Bridge, Yusuf knew something was wrong. The regiment were clustered around, so nervous he could almost taste it.

As he rode toward the bridge, a soldier stopped him. “All of London has fallen to the zombies. You cannot cross the bridge.”

Yusuf looked back at Nile. If there was even a chance Leyla was there…

“We have urgent business on the other side,” she said, as though she were reading his mind. 

“You don’t understand! This bridge is rigged with all the explosives left in England. It’s to be detonated tomorrow at dawn.” When he realised he was not getting through to them, the soldier appeared to almost panic. “The last squadron is being withdrawn from the In Between; our people can’t hold it much longer. If the undead of London take the bridge, the rest of England will be lost.”

Yusuf flicked his horse’s reins. It was afternoon and St Lazarus was not far from the bridge. “Nevertheless,” he replied, “We mustn’t turn back.”

***

They had been fighting since their arrival at the front, several days before. Sebastien had been somewhat surprised when Andromache had told him she would join them later; but then, when Nicolò was resting, she had divulged just a little of her plan: she wished to see Yusuf herself, if only to understand why Nicolò would go and make such an uncharacteristically rash decision as he had done.

Sebastien did not really understand the problem, but then he had only been with them a century or so. He supposed that was enough to be living in someone’s pocket, as it were, but it was not enough to have him feeling as though he could interfere in their life choices.

Then again, he wondered if it had even taken Andromache more than a decade or so to reach _that_ point.

Either way, it was none of his business so long as she did not kill the man and Sebastien thought the likelihood of that was low, what with Nile being nearby. So he and Nicolò had headed to the front and now here they were, hours before Hingham Bridge was due to be blown, killing any zombies they could find.

They had not found Merrick, of course; though Sebastien had also not expected them to. Part of him thought Merrick was long gone, but then he had met men like Merrick before – albeit not quite so enthusiastic – and knew he would remain nearby, so long as Nicolò was around.

Nicolò was somewhere off to his right now, not far; some of the soldiers were out there with them, destroying any zombies between Hingham Bridge and the chevaux de frise that had been installed to stop the hordes pouring over. 

The regiment had outfitted them, when they had asked; he assumed his name carried some weight here as they were still in Hertfordshire, but Nicolò’s certainly did. They had heard of him from Italy, they had said, from France, and had been surprised to find out he was so young; he and Sebastien had exchanged a look and changed the subject.

The ground was covered in zombies, limbless things that dragged themselves towards the only living creatures they could find. Sebastien spotted a group caught under the wooden spikes and barbed wire that served as defences and smirked when he saw an already-lit bomb nearby. 

This would be an easy one.

He bent to drop the bomb in among them – and cursed when his scarf caught on the wire. He tugged at it, even as the zombies reached out, as the wick burned down…

He thought, ruefully, that he had never blown up before.

Seconds before the bomb exploded, someone tackled him around the waist; they fell in a tangle of limbs into the dirt and Sebastien kept his head low as the bomb exploded behind them, sending dirt and pieces of zombie asunder.

His rescuer coughed, still half on top of him and Sebastien was astonished when he saw who it was.

“Nile?” 

She smiled, getting to her feet. When she reached out her hand, he took it.

“We need your help.”

***

Yusuf spotted Di Genova before Nile saw Le Livre and although he heard her turn her horse in a different direction, he did not look around. 

It seemed as though the unflappable Signor di Genova had found himself caught in a potter’s field, hands bursting through the ground to hold him in place.

Yusuf jumped from his horse, spotting the as-of-yet unseen threat approaching: a large zombie, which had seen Di Genova stop, was lurching toward him. 

He drew his saif.

Di Genova spotted the zombie; he swiped at the hands with his sword and Yusuf darted forward as the zombie almost reached him, removing its head with a swift swipe.

The zombie fell and Di Genova stared at Yusuf as though he had seen a ghost.

One of the hands tugged on Di Genova’s boots and Yusuf couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

“Hello, Mr Al-Kaysani,” Di Genova said and his voice was warm.

Yusuf turned his face away, distracted momentarily by hands creeping up out of the dirt around his own feet. “Potter’s field,” he said.

“Yes, quite,” Di Genova replied. He had not moved. Then, “What?”

Yusuf dared a look up; their eyes met. “This. What we’re standing on. It is an unmarked zombie graveyard.” 

Di Genova nodded. “Yes, of course.”

They made swift work of the potter’s field and reunited with Nile and Le Livre by the bridge. Both were covered in a faint dusting of dirt and Yusuf decided it might be better not to ask.

“Mr Al-Kaysani, what possible cause would the two of you have for leaving Hertfordshire and entering into the In Between?” Di Genova asked.

Yusuf considered his answer. Di Genova would not believe something flippant and, besides, the letters still in his pocket would not allow him to say it.

“We had no choice,” he said. “Merrick has run off with Leyla. He’s taken her to where his zombies congregate. St Lazarus.”

“St Lazarus?” Di Genova looked over at someone – Yusuf assumed Le Livre – before he shook his head. “I know it well.”

He knew where it was? He knew how to find Leyla?

Di Genova’s next words turned Yusuf’s blood to ice. “I saw it razed to the ground five days ago.”

Yusuf heard a sudden ringing in his ears, felt himself sway; Di Genova put his hands on his shoulders and Yusuf shook his head.

“She cannot…”

“Your sister couldn’t possibly have survived,” he said, so softly. “I am profoundly sorry for your loss.”

No. He could not have lost another sister – truly lost a sister; Nile was there, suddenly, propping him up on one side and he did not know when Di Genova had left, only that he was not there.

“She cannot be gone, Nile, she cannot…” 

Tears fell down his face and he felt as though he could not breathe, as though someone had reached inside and ripped out his heart and he had failed her, truly; by allowing Merrick to live, he had killed his youngest sister.

Nile was crying too, her arms wrapped around his waist and they were sitting now, in one of the tents the regiment had set up. When Yusuf came back to himself, he did not know how much time had passed.

“Where are they?” he asked Nile; his voice came out hoarse.

She had her head on his shoulder, her right side pressed entirely up against his left. “Outside, somewhere,” she said. “We should go back to Longbourn.”

“London has already fallen.”

“And the Grand Barrier is burning. They will blow the bridge. Mama and baba will not survive losing three of us.” Her voice wavered but did not break. 

Yusuf scrubbed his hands over his face. “Very well,” he said. “We shall return.”

They stepped out into the evening light and Yusuf saw their horses were tied up nearby. He should find Di Genova, he thought, thank him; the news had been poorly received but he did not suppose the man had expected any less. 

He stopped a passing soldier. “Where can I find Signor di Genova?”

“I have not seen him for an hour or so, sir.”

“Monsieur le Livre?”

The soldier jerked his head to indicate behind Yusuf and Yusuf turned, saw him. The soldiers were beginning to pack down their makeshift camp, make their journey over the bridge – but Le Livre was not concerning himself with any of that. 

He was not looking at the bridge at all, Yusuf realised, at the same time that he realised everyone else was oriented in that direction, their escape.

“That _fool_ ,” he hissed and ignored Nile’s surprised exclamation as he strode over to Le Livre and grabbed his arm.

“Hingham Bridge is behind us,” Yusuf said, in reply to Le Livre’s startled squawk.

Nile had caught up. “Yusuf, what is going on?”

“London’s over there.” Yusuf pointed; it was to the south, with the bridge at their backs. “Which direction are you looking, Monsieur le Livre?”

Le Livre had the good grace to look ashamed, although the expression did not sit long on his face. “St Lazarus,” he said and, behind him, Nile cursed.

“Di Genova lied,” Yusuf said and he was not sure who he was saying it to.

“To spare you… He’d risk anything for you, Mr Al-Kaysani.”

Yusuf was already turning away and Nile did not hesitate; when he mounted his horse, so did she. 

They rode for St Lazarus, leaving Le Livre shouting behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the strength it took to keep this all as one chapter!!
> 
> also for anyone wondering, these are [chevaux de frise](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheval_de_frise), which i found by looking up 'wooden spikes stop attacks' because it turns out words are difficult, especially if they're in french


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò finds Leyla. Yusuf finds Nicolò.

“Your sister couldn’t possibly have survived. I am profoundly sorry for your loss.” 

He was not even certain Yusuf had heard him; Nile darted between them, burying her head in Yusuf’s shoulder and Nicolò stepped back when she moved them away, gesturing to Sebastien with a jerk of his head.

Sebastien frowned, taking up position on his right-hand side. Nile was leading Yusuf away, out of sight, and although Nicolò did not want to leave, he knew he _must._

“You lied,” Sebastien said. He sounded confused.

“Yes.” Nicolò squared his shoulders. “I feel I must depart for St Lazarus immediately.” 

Sebastien smiled; it was almost feral, a baring of his teeth. “Revenge?”

“A rescue. Let’s see how reasonable his advanced zombies are after their appetites have been whet.” 

“Make sure you return. I do not much like the idea of you being trapped with the hordes for God knows how long.”

Nicolò nodded. “Dawn breaks at five o’clock tomorrow. I’ll make it back.”

“Of course you will, old man.” 

“The order must be given at first light, Sebastien, no matter what.” 

“I’ll give the order.”

They looked at each other then and when Sebastien extended his hand, Nicolò grasped his arm. “If I do not return, tell Andromache not to worry.”

“It is not _her_ grief I fear,” Sebastien said and he was looking now, again, toward the tent Nile and Yusuf had vanished into. “But I will.”

There was something unspoken in that; Nicolò understood that Sebastien was promising to do more than just soothe Andromache’s fears – he would care for Nile. He would protect Yusuf.

Nicolò nodded. “There is one more thing I must do. I will see you at dawn.”

He left Sebastien standing there, an unofficial guard over the brother and sister grieving together. 

The corpses of fallen soldiers had been gathered – heads removed, of course – for transportation out of London and the In Between, so that they all could receive a proper burial. It was not all of them, Nicolò knew; some were likely walking around as the undead and some were simply not retrievable. Still, it would be more than enough for his plan.

He picked up a burlap sack as he passed through the camp and slipped in the back of the mortuary tent. There was no one inside and so Nicolò drew a knife and set to work.

Half an hour later, he was riding for St Lazarus, the bag of brains tied securely to the saddle of his horse. The truth was, they had not even passed close to the church in their attempt to retrieve all the soldiers left in the In Between; Nicolò had heard rumours of it, however. Not of zombies, but of the ghosts of the massacred villagers, people who congregated in the church each night, taking their communion. 

That made sense, he supposed, that they would think that. How else to explain zombies that did not decay as they should, did not do their utmost to fulfil their lust for brains? 

The church was a few hours away and Nicolò slowed as he neared it, doing his best to mask his approach. Already, the zombies were pouring inside, all dressed in black, wearing hats and veils, presumably to hide their visages. 

He knew where Merrick would have her and, not for the first time since Yusuf had said the name of the church, he wondered who this trap was set for. It had seemed infinitely more likely to be designed to ambush Yusuf rather than him; after all, even if Merrick had discerned Nicolò’s true feelings, he could not guarantee that Nicolò would risk himself for Yusuf’s sister and he could not expect that Nicolò would fall for the same ploy twice.

His horse snorted when Nicolò tied him to the wrought iron bars that served as a window to the cellar of the church. Merrick liked to keep his prisoners in the cold and dark. Nicolò pulled down the bag of brains and dared a look around, at the entrance to the church.

Four men stood there with their backs to him, pallbearers by their dress, and as he watched, one turned its head. Nicolò shifted back behind the wall, heart thudding against his ribs. Merrick had, perhaps, told them to look out for him; and he might not be able to stay dead, but he did not much like his chances against a horde of them.

Only when the pallbearers had entered the church did Nicolò move again. He knew, of course, where the communion wine would be – or whatever it was this congregation was using to slake their hunger. 

_Pigs’ brains._

Yusuf had known that. 

Nicolò slunk in at the back of the church, grateful for the shadows. The parson was just beginning and so he took quiet, measured steps, one hand tight around the bag he was carrying, the other on the hilt of his sword.

The church was _full_ , silent except for the droning of the parson, the flickering of flames in the wind. Nicolò made it to the door in the north transept and opened it slowly, ducking inside and closing it behind him.

For a moment, he waited. He heard no sound on the other side of the door and when he saw the communion bowl, he felt a momentary burst of triumph. It was a matter of minutes to replace the already provided pigs’ brains with the ones he had harvested and then he was moving again, slipping through another door to where he was sure the stairs to the cellar would be.

Nicolò paused at the top. He could see her there, Leyla; remembered her from the dance at the assembly hall, and at Netherfield. She was laying almost ominously still, but when she moved, reaching to push her hair back from her face, Nicolò let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

She might be a zombie, of course, a quiet part of him whispered, and so he took the stone stairs slowly, carefully. There was no indication anyone else was down there with them and Nicolò slipped over to the bars that kept Leyla contained, breaking the lock and closing the gate behind him again.

Leyla lifted her head. Her eyes were glassy and Nicolò knew, then, that she was not a zombie. Drugged, perhaps, because he had never seen her this lethargic; although he had no understanding, at this moment, of what Merrick could have put her through.

“Signor di Genova?” she murmured as he came closer.

“It’s alright,” he replied. The manacles around her wrists were iron, too, and he did not have the key. There had to be another way.

“He said you’d come,” she said and she was almost listing to one side. “Merrick. He said you’d come.”

Ah. So the trap had been for him after all, which somehow put him back on an even keel. It had been bound to come to this, eventually; the only question, now, was whether or not he could get Leyla out safely.

He traced the manacle chain with his eyes. It was connected to the bars, at a height that would make things much more difficult, but Nicolò already had an idea.

“Signor di Genova,” a voice said, almost sing-song in tone.

“Cazzo,” Nicolò hissed.

“My God, you are so predictable. I knew by taking young Leyla you would come to protect the Al-Kaysanis’ honour. Have you come to kill me?” 

“Sadly not. You did not need to take her to have me come and do that.” He tugged on the chain but it would not budge.

Merrick laughed, coming closer. He was holding a musket, small though it was, and Nicolò tugged Leyla to her feet. She was the one most in danger of the two of them.

“If you surrender yourself to me, I will let her go,” Merrick said. “I know it is a matter of hours until Hingham Bridge is destroyed.”

“And you plan to remain in the In Between?”

“With you by my side? Why would I not?”

Nicolò almost wanted to laugh. Did Merrick not understand? There would be no humans left within a week; or, at least, very few – if there were any aside from him now. He would turn, just like the rest.

Before he could answer, a roar shattered the air between them. For one brief, glorious second, Merrick looked _terrified._

“What did you _do_?” he shouted.

Nicolò said nothing else. The door burst open above them and he heard his horse let out a terrified whinny outside; it could hear the zombies as they poured in. All of them were smeared in blood and Merrick shot at them wildly.

Nicolò put his full weight behind the chains, zombies reaching their arms through the bars in an attempt to grab he and Leyla both, and when they finally broke, he did not hesitate. He scooped the girl up and ran with her to the window.

The window that his frightened horse had made into a viable escape for them. 

The bars were gone, pulled out in the animal’s haste to elude the horde, though Nicolò trusted he would still be nearby. He pushed Leyla up and out first, following close behind.

“Signor di Genova,” she said once they were outside. It was full dark now and Nicolò did not know how much longer they had until Hingham Bridge blew. “We have to go.”

Except zombies were flooding out of the church and Nicolò had the distinct feeling he had not been let off so easily when it came to Merrick.

“Leyla, listen to me. You have to get across Hingham Bridge.” They had reached his horse, which was pawing the ground nervously. “Yusuf and Nile are waiting for you on the other side.”

She climbed atop the horse without argument but her eyes were filled with tears. 

“Come with me,” she said and he shook his head, untangling the horse’s reins from the iron bars. 

“As long as Merrick lives, England is in peril.” 

Leyla sniffed. “And Yusuf,” she said. 

When he looked at her this time, she looked almost _knowing_ , though he did not feel the immediate clench of fear he knew he should. “And Yusuf,” he agreed, voice barely above a whisper.

The zombies had spotted them, some breaking off to head their way and Nicolò shook his head. They had no time.

“Go, Leyla! Go!”

She pulled on the reins and the horse leapt forward. Nicolò drew his sword. He tore through every zombie that crossed his path; perhaps he should have gone with her but now he very much wanted to see Merrick dead.

He would not risk anyone else again. 

Nicolò started moving away from St Lazarus as he fought, heads thudding into the dirt, limbs twitching as bodies followed. He made it to a small copse of trees; there were still so many of them and the ones from London would join them too, he was certain of it. 

A twig snapped behind him. Nicolò turned. He could see nothing but his skin prickled with the feeling of being watched.

His grip on his sword tightened. He adjusted his stance.

Merrick leapt out of the trees and their blades met.

***

Yusuf was beginning to worry they would not find St Lazarus. He knew the general direction it was in, of course, but it was dark now and he would not return to Hingham Bridge until he knew of Leyla’s fate.

The truth of it – even if that meant he would be cut off here forever.

Nile had not spoken a word to him since they had left Le Livre behind, had just doggedly followed along. If it got too late, Yusuf knew she would do her best to send him back but he knew, too, that he would not.

A noise caught his attention and he slowed his horse. Nile pulled in a little closer.

“What is it?” she asked. Her sword was already in her hand and when Yusuf realised what he was seeing, he drew his.

Zombies. A mass of them, rising over the crest of the hill ahead. They were not heading for Yusuf and Nile, not directly – instead, they were heading for the bridge.

And then he saw it.

Her.

He recognised the horse but, more importantly, the rider, and beside him Nile let out a cry of relief.

“Leyla!” Yusuf shouted. “Leyla!”

She was too far away to hear and Yusuf realised, suddenly, what had to be done.

“You have to go with her,” he said.

“Yusuf, I’m not leaving you.”

“St Lazarus is nearby, it has to be. Di Genova wasn’t on the horse with her. I _cannot_ leave him here.”

She could not really argue with that; it was not as if she could tell him the man was already dead.

“I do not think Leyla was armed.”

At that, Nile frowned but did turn. “You had both better make it back,” she said.

Yusuf nodded. “I will do my best.”

She stared at him for a long moment before spurring on her horse. Yusuf did not wait. He had his saif in his hand and cut through the zombie pack, heading toward their origin point. 

He heard them before he saw them. Blade on blade – so Merrick was here, was alive. Yusuf rode for them; all he needed to do was take Di Genova, _Nicolò_ , from this place. He burst through the trees, his horse barrelling Merrick to the ground mid-swipe.

Nicolò stared up at him; he looked, as he had earlier, as though he had seen a ghost.

“What are you–?” 

“Did you expect that I would not come and retrieve you?”

Nicolò’s glass-green eyes widened and Yusuf’s heart was hammering harder than he had ever felt it but he knew the choice he was making – should always have made, really.

He reached out his hand. “We need to leave.”

A sharp pain lanced through his right side, the side facing away from Nicolò, and Yusuf let out a cry as he toppled from his horse. It reared up and he rolled out of the way, and Nicolò was there already, trying to pull him up, even as Merrick strode toward them.

His hand, the one he had pressed against his side on reflex, came away sticky with blood. Nicolò helped him to his feet but that was certainly not a better position and he could barely hold his saif now, besides.

“You look terrified, Di Genova,” Merrick said, tipping his head to one side. His eyes travelled over Nicolò, then Yusuf, and then they widened in undisguised glee. 

“You are _not_ immortal, are you?”

Yusuf managed, somehow, to laugh. “I never said I was.”

Glee turned to rage, Yusuf assumed, as Merrick realised his own mistake. He would never get to the rest of Yusuf’s family now; Le Livre and Andromache were safe, too. So long as they killed Merrick…

So long as they killed Merrick, he would be the only one hurt.

Nicolò had gone very still beside him, every muscle in his body tense, and when Merrick lashed out, he met Nicolò’s blade. The sword slashed across Merrick’s chest, deep enough to render cloth and flesh and reveal the bite mark on his shoulder.

Yusuf swayed where he stood.

“You are undead,” Nicolò said, pushing Merrick back; they circled each other like two wolves. 

“I was searching for a cure when I found you, Nicolò,” Merrick said and his grin was a horrible thing. “I had already managed to resist the urge to eat brains; I knew immediately that they would only cause my rapid degeneration. It was not easy, but I survived.”

“How long?” Nicolò asked.

Yusuf murmured, “Five years,” in a sudden moment of horrifying clarity; Merrick only smirked.

“Why? Why have you done all this? You have killed thousands.” 

Merrick shrugged. “At first, I only wanted to live. And then I found you – a man who will live forever and not suffer the way I have, who does not desire to eat his fellow man.” He growled. “It did not take me long, once I came to England, to find my purpose. The Four Horsemen have risen from Hell; you have seen them. The zombie apocalypse is here and I shall be the one to lead them.”

He struck again and Nicolò met him, knocked him back. Yusuf reached out for the nearest tree, his saif slipping from his slack grip. Nothing could excuse what Merrick had done and yet Yusuf felt a thin vein of desperation as he realised blood was soaking his tunic, that they were hours away from the bridge and it would not help–

A zombie, one stray, singular zombie, lurched out of the trees beside him. Yusuf jerked back, fumbled his dagger out of its sheath, but it had heard him, was on him, and when it bit down on his shoulder, he screamed.

Nicolò seemed to trip over his own feet at the sound, let out a short, wounded noise; and then he drove his sword through Merrick’s middle as Merrick lifted his own for another swipe. Yusuf stabbed the zombie in the throat, the cheek, and when it let go, he collapsed back against the tree, gasping for air.

It _burned_ , as though he could feel whatever made the undead… undead, travelling under his skin. He dragged in one breath, then another. He had been dying already, he reasoned, even as part of his mind spiralled into panic. The zombie had only sped things along.

Nicolò fell to his knees beside him and his hands fluttered above Yusuf’s body. He did not know where to look, except he was not looking Yusuf in the face and Yusuf could not stand that, not now.

“Nicolò,” he managed, a half-whisper. “Nicolò! Look at me!”

It appeared to take some effort, but Nicolò lifted his eyes to Yusuf’s and whatever he saw in Yusuf’s face had his lips trembling – Yusuf reached for his hand and Nicolò grabbed at him.

“I am so sorry,” he said, voice thick with tears and Yusuf shook his head.

“Not your fault. Just please, promise me… Promise me you will do it.”

They both knew what he was asking and Yusuf thought it an odd irony that he was now on both ends of this dilemma, begging for his own end.

Nicolò’s jaw worked before he replied. “I will. And I will protect Nile, your family, I swear it.”

 _Peace._ That was the sudden feeling that washed over Yusuf; he knew Nicolò would keep his word, would stick to what he had just sworn with a stubborn consternation that perhaps only Yusuf could match.

He managed a smile. “Thank you. Can I ask you for one more thing?” It was selfish, especially after all he had done, especially as he knew Nicolò would never deny him, but he did not wish to die without knowing.

“Anything.” 

“Kiss me.” 

For a moment, after he said it, it was as though time stopped. The pain was still there, a dull spreading through his body. The underlying sadness, fear. 

Nicolò closed his eyes briefly. A tear slipped down his cheek.

He reached out and tilted Yusuf’s chin ever so gently, just as he had done at the ball. It had the same effect. Yusuf sucked in a sharp breath, the pain barely registering because Nicolò was leaning in and Yusuf closed his eyes and–

Their lips met. His were soft and warm, so gentle as they moved over Yusuf’s own and when Yusuf dared to dart out his tongue, he tasted salt and blood and _Nicolò._ He reached up, curling his hand around the back of Nicolò’s neck and Nicolò whimpered into his mouth, pushing closer.

If he was to die with a regret, it would only be this: that this was the first and last time they would have this, have each other. That his own prejudice and stubbornness had kept them apart.

All too soon, Nicolò pulled back and Yusuf dug his fingers in as all the pain flooded back at once. 

“Nicolò, I–”

“Ti amo, Yusuf,” Nicolò said against his mouth. “It is selfish of me but I do not think I can hear it, before I…”

Yusuf closed his eyes, nodded. He felt like a faint version of himself, suddenly, as though he were stepping outside of his own body, shedding it like a second skin. Nicolò murmured to him, Italian and Arabic and English all mixed together and Yusuf realised he could not understand the words, he did not want to go, but the darkness was clawing at him, the bite on his shoulder was throbbing and he just had to say–

***

Nicolò allowed himself a few seconds of weeping once Yusuf’s body went limp. His warm hand slipped from Nicolò’s neck – he had held him so possessively – and then Nicolò stood, picked up his sword.

He had dropped it, after killing Merrick.

Nothing about Yusuf’s death looked peaceful, except for the expression on his face. Nicolò took a deep breath and lifted his sword. 

Once it was done, he did not dare turn back around and look. He had to ride to the bridge – he had no choice but to keep his promise – and he did not wish for his last memory of Yusuf to be what he had just done.

He cut down zombies during the ride, ever mindful of the fact that dawn was close. Nothing drove him on but the promise; he could not think to the future, to telling Nile or Leyla or any of their family. They would blame him, but then he was deserving of blame. 

Hingham Bridge appeared on the horizon just as the shadows around him were becoming less deep. There were zombies everywhere, here, but the horse was swift and Nicolò did not care when he felt a sharp pain in his leg, a scrape on his side. 

They were shouting, he realised, as he approached.

Light had begun to streak the sky. 

He pushed the horse on. 

Its hooves thundered on the stone, Nicolò pressed down along the length of its neck, and when the explosions started behind them, he hung on for dear life. They had to make it – they _had_ to – and when the horse threw him, he was entirely unsurprised.

He landed on his arm, which snapped beneath his weight, and lay there, staring up at the sky. The explosions had stopped; the bridge was no longer a bridge – there was, no longer, a way to London or the In Between.

He did not know how long he lay there before Nile appeared at his side. “Where is he, Nicolò?” she asked, voice tremulous, and she already knew, she had to.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I am _sorry_ , but he– He did not–” 

“No!” She looked _terrified_ , and full of grief, and Nicolò wanted to help her but knew he could not.

She sobbed there, next to him, until Sebastien came and pulled her gently to her feet. “Come, now,” he said. He shot a look at Nicolò but Nicolò waved him off.

He did not bring himself to move for many hours.

***

He did not know where he was.

Something rough was pressed against his leg, and all around him was damp and dirty and it smelled like blood.

What had he been doing?

Zombies, there had been zombies.

Zombies meant… undead. Death. Merrick.

But Merrick was dead.

His fingers twitched.

New fingers? They felt the same, but different. Everything felt different. 

He could not open his eyes. Not yet. Phantom pain ravaged him and then went away.

Why was he here?

Where should he be?

The thought prodded, itched. Where should he be?

_Where should I be?_

In the distance, a loud noise. The ground shook.

_The bridge!_

Yusuf sucked in a ragged breath and his eyes snapped open.

He lifted his hands, turned them over – he was alive. Alive! 

And the wound… the wound was gone, he realised, running his hand over his skin.

He got to his feet, turned and realised–

He was alone.

Alone and in the In Between.

Alone and in the In Between and when he heard a zombie howl in the distance, he bent down and picked up his saif.

It would be alright. 

He could survive this. After all, now, it was not as though he could do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um. i'm very sorry about this chapter. i guess we all knew it was coming? still... we're about to DIVERGE! so y'know i hope y'all still enjoy that.
> 
> also, real talk: this is the most CONFUSING part of the film, timeline-wise. how far IS st lazarus from the bridge?? how long is darcy skulking around in there?? i certainly don't know so uh there's a bit of hand waving with the timeline... i am firmly in camp 'the head remains the most useful part' so i figure it just took yusuf like a couple of hours to grow a whole new body 😬
> 
> if you want to yell at me in the comments, feel free! i love all comments equally (but especially the yell-y ones 🖤)
> 
> eta: made a tiny edit to this chapter because yeah i'm all for them growing new entire bodies if it helps fix my timeline but unless a zombie came and dressed yusuf he's uh def naked. so that's a thing now 😅 my bad!


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The survivors return to Rosings.

They rode for Rosings that afternoon. Sebastien went ahead, posture tense, eyes sharp. Nile and Leyla were sharing a horse – Nile had not let her sister out of her sight, which was not to say Leyla had appeared inclined to run off again. 

Nicolò brought up the rear. Every so often, Leyla turned her head to look at him, as though she was unsure he was still there. He would not leave them, even though Nile had not spoken a word to him since he had informed her of Yusuf’s fate.

It was to be expected and besides, he had little room to worry about her in his own grief. His grief and his promise. He kept a weather eye out for zombies, still; he would not fail Yusuf ever, if he could help it, but certainly not only a day after he had died.

Night had fallen as they reached Rosings Park but Nicolò felt no ease as they rode through the iron gates. Yusuf’s family was here – he had heard Nile tell Sebastien when they had stopped for a few minutes along the way. How could he tell them? 

He did not have to. They dismounted in the courtyard – Nicolò was down from his horse first and helped Leyla, whose hands were icy cold in his grip. When he held out a hand for Nile, however, she physically recoiled, throwing him a look dark enough that Nicolò took a surprised step back. Even Sebastien did not approach for a moment and she leapt from the horse herself, wrapping her arms around her sister.

Before any of them could speak, Yusuf’s father emerged from the estate. Leyla sobbed and untangled herself from Nile, racing into his arms. Nicolò swallowed around a lump in his throat. His own grieving was for later.

Nile joined Leyla and Mr Al-Kaysani; he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, too, pulling her in tight. 

“I am overjoyed you are both well,” he said, eyes shining in the lamplight and then he looked around. Nicolò saw the moment he realised Yusuf was not there. His expression dropped, then turned panicked.

“Where is Yusuf?” he asked. 

Like Nile at the bridge, Nicolò was certain he already knew the answer.

Nile sniffled. “He did not make it back, baba.”

“What? Why? What happened, Nile?”

Leyla burst into tears again. “It’s all my fault, baba!” she cried and Nicolò finally looked away. It was not her fault; of course it was not. It was Merrick, Merrick who had tricked her and taken her and lured them there…

And it was Nicolò’s. Nicolò’s fault, Nicolò’s weakness. 

Yusuf had paid the price for it.

The rest of the family were coming out into the night, now, and Nicolò forced himself to remain where he was. Andromache was with them; her eyes were sad when they met his but she did not approach him; instead, she moved to whisper to Sebastien. Nicolò did not care much to hear what they were saying. He watched, instead, as the family took in the news. Their eldest son, their beloved protector – dead. 

Dead, and for what?

It took some time for Andromache to gently usher them all back inside, Sebastien joining with a hand on Nile’s shoulder. Nicolò waited outside in the dark. 

The door closed behind them and he fell to his knees; the only thing that had kept him standing had been the fact that he did not wish to intrude on _their_ grief, that he had no right to Yusuf’s memory in the face of his family.

Now, alone, he sobbed into his hands. He had not been lying when he had proposed and had certainly not lied in the letter; he was in love with Yusuf in a way he had never felt before and while he was unsure precisely when it had moved from distant admiration into complete and utter adoration, he still knew it to be true. 

He would have done anything for Yusuf – except, apparently, die for him.

When he could catch his breath, Nicolò wiped at his face. He still had to go into the house, though he thought he would not be remiss in not saying good night. He had nothing to remember Yusuf by, he realised, and although that was not important – and was something he would have surrendered to his family, in any case – it triggered a fresh bout of tears.

Fifty happy years would still have been fifty happy years, he thought, and they had not even managed fifty minutes. He had thought Yusuf’s feelings towards him had been changed already, when they met again in the potter’s field; he had _known_ it only when Yusuf had reached out to him from horseback.

Merrick had even managed to destroy Nicolò’s love. Death was too easy a punishment for him.

Nicolò shook his head, wiping at his face again and slowly got to his feet – only to stop in his tracks. Mr Al-Kaysani was standing there and, to his shame, Nicolò had not heard him approach. They studied each other for a moment, both wearing the weight of losing a loved one, and Mr Al-Kaysani spoke first.

“You loved him.” 

_Love him,_ Nicolò wanted to correct, but he bit his tongue, nodding instead. 

“Then why are you grieving him alone?” 

“I– Nile–”

“She told us Yusuf rode back to save you.” There was no accusation in his tone, only a gentle understanding and Nicolò did not know how he could _do_ this. He stood there with sad, soft eyes, _Yusuf’s_ eyes, and Nicolò’s stomach rolled. “Did he die protecting you?”

“He reached for me and– I was not fast enough, I did not see–” He let out a sob again but Mr Al-Kaysani’s expression did not change.

No, Nicolò was wrong. It did; the lines around his mouth softened. “Leyla said you saved her. She said it…” He looked up at the sky once, eyes shimmering, and then back at Nicolò again. “She said it because she thinks we will blame you. She wishes for us to blame her.”

“Nile blames me,” Nicolò said and then added, because he couldn’t _not,_ “You should, too.”

“Did you kill him?”

Nicolò shook his head. _“No.”_ He saw no reason to mention the zombie, what had happened after. 

“And Merrick, I assume you did kill him?”

“Yes.”

Mr Al-Kaysani hummed thoughtfully. He turned his face away and clearly he was thinking of Yusuf; Nicolò caught the reflection of a tear in the lamplight. 

“Come inside when you are ready, signor,” Mr Al-Kaysani said, finally. “I believe we will be in the sitting room for most of the night but grieve however you must.”

“Thank you,” Nicolò said and his voice was thick.

“It takes a very long time to come to terms with the death of someone you loved that dearly.” Mr Al-Kaysani was not looking at Nicolò now, but past him, at someone or something only he could see. “You should take as long as you need. And please, do not blame yourself anymore. We all know how stubborn Yusuf could be.” 

He was crying now, Yusuf’s father, but before Nicolò could try and comfort him, he turned away, going back into the house. Nicolò looked up at the sky, the glittering stars, the moon.

What if he could never come to terms with it? What if he did not wish to?

He was not sure how much time had passed when he finally re-entered the house – minutes, hours? – but he heard Sebastien’s low murmur in the sitting room when he passed, interspersed with other quiet conversation, more crying. He was not certain whether Andromache was in there but avoided the room, heading immediately upstairs to the room she had given him to sleep in.

He was tired, bone-tired, and yet when he climbed between the sheets, his mind would not slow down. He relived the moment Merrick had stabbed Yusuf over and over, the pained, terrified scream when the zombie had bitten into Yusuf’s shoulder, and so when he realised that the Yusuf he suddenly saw before his eyes was in a dream, he was wholly unsurprised.

This Yusuf was picking his way through the In Between, clothes torn and streaked with blood. His every step was precise, measured. Nicolò wanted to reach out and touch, wanted to coax this Yusuf into his arms, keep him in his dreams forever, but all too soon he could feel himself being pulled away, back to consciousness.

He woke with tears on his cheeks, a gaping, hollow feeling in his chest.

Yusuf was still gone.

It had been one day.

***

The morning after her brother died, Nile woke with a start. 

She had dreamed of him! She knew the feeling, she was certain; she had seen Yusuf in the In Between, his saif at his hip and his expression so grave, but she felt that same tugging in her stomach she had when she had seen Sebastien and the others for the first time. 

Still, she pushed the elated feeling aside as she dressed and made her way downstairs. She knew she had to ask the others – although the thought of speaking to Di Genova was repulsive to her. 

He had promised his love to Yusuf, she knew that much; and he was immortal, besides. Nile understood that baba could forgive – when it was a life for a life, all that made more sense. But Yusuf should not have been in _any_ danger.

When she entered the dining room, Sebastien and Andromache were already seated. Sebastien leapt to his feet and Nile nodded at him. 

“Where is everyone else?” she asked.

Andromache did have an air of sadness about her, too, Nile thought, although she had never liked Yusuf much. 

“Mr Al-Kaysani and Karima were up before dawn. Praying, I believe, so, if you are all staying at Rosings for a while, we will have to send for some things from Longbourn,” Andromache said.

“Mama?” 

Sebastien gave her a faint smile. “I confess, I heard Leyla pacing most of the night. Your mother has taken her out into the gardens. I believe Eli is with them; he is very quiet.”

Nile sighed and took a seat. “Leyla blames herself.”

Andromache looked at her sharply. “Do you not blame her?”

“No. She did not know who Merrick was, what he was capable of. Yusuf and I were supposed to protect all of them and somehow, she simply vanished from under us.”

Andromache opened her mouth but then seemed to think better of it. A servant came in, unobtrusively, and placed a plate before Nile.

She already knew she could not eat it.

“I had a dream about Yusuf last night,” she said. “Merrick, he– I saw him stab him. Cowardly, when Yusuf was not looking. And then the zombie–”

When she looked up, Sebastien and Andromache were watching her intently.

“What are you saying?” Sebastien asked.

“I think Yusuf is still alive.”

“You do?” Andromache exchanged a look with Sebastien. “I am sorry, Nile,” she said.

Nile shook her head. “I do not understand.”

“We _all_ dream of people like us, when they die. I do not know about Sebastien, but I did not dream of Yusuf last night.”

Nile looked to him desperately. It had been so _real;_ she could not have imagined it!

“I’m sorry, too,” Sebastien replied. “I did not dream of him, either.”

Nile thought she might be sick. She pushed the plate away and could not look at either of them, now. “Excuse me,” she muttered and all but fled the room.

Sebastien did not move until they could no longer hear her footsteps; until he was sure they were entirely alone.

“Was that your wisest idea, Andromache?”

She sighed. “Perhaps not. But between her and Nico, they will waste the time she has remaining with her family attempting to retrieve someone who will most certainly find his way back to us.”

“So, you dreamed of him, too?”

“Of course.”

“They will kill us when they find out the truth. _He_ will kill us for leaving him there.”

“I am doing what I must to protect my family, Sebastien,” Andromache said. “Three hundred years from now, Nile will be glad to have spent time with her family – a family who can never know that Yusuf still lives. Besides, I am certain he, at least, would understand that. And I trust that he will make it back to us.” 

“In what state?”

Andromache gave Sebastien a small smile. “From what I have seen of him, he will be even more ferocious. I think we could stand to have more of that.”

The truth was, Sebastien knew, that neither of them could be certain. He just hoped their newest brother would make it back to them soon – and that Nile would not kill him too painfully when she found out he had lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very late posting this but on my four-hour bus trip back home, i properly outlined the end of this story (26 pages of outlineee) which means there's 16 more chapters after this one! 😅 hope you're all ready for that because i feel as though i am not (which is why this is going up at 4am)


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf makes the first decision of his new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more zombies chowing down this chapter (though not necessarily super explicit) - if you're not interested, skip from _It was all a mere matter of time_ and start reading again at _Eventually, he woke in a lull..._ 😄

Yusuf retrieved his clothes from the body that was still wearing them. It was an odd thing, to see it resting there, to move it about as if it had not once been his own, but he did it and he did not cry, he did not scream or retch; he was not certain, in fact, that he felt anything at all.

He had his saif, and his dagger – but Nicolò and the horse were long gone. Hingham Bridge was long gone.

Still, he had to be certain.

He met the first cluster of zombies an hour later. They listed about, groaning, and Yusuf felt pity, for a second, as he watched them. He did not share their insatiable hunger – had not, even when the bite had burned into his skin. 

One spotted him and howled. Yusuf drew his saif. No matter what had happened, what would happen, this was the only enduring condition: there would always be zombies, and he would always destroy them.

The first two that ran at him, Yusuf cut down with ease. After all that had happened, he had expected to at least feel fatigued, but instead he moved the same way he had on his very best days of training, ducking under outstretched hands and removing limbs, heads, with swift strikes. It was not long before they all lay in pieces around him and Yusuf caught his breath, curling his free hand into a fist.

A desire to turn back almost overwhelmed him. Nothing good could be where the bridge had been – he knew, of course, that Nile and Leyla, Nicolò and Sebastien, would be long gone. 

But if they were not?

He encountered more zombies, destroyed as many as he could, and received a single injury for his efforts; a scratch along his arm that healed almost as soon as it had drawn blood. There were destroyed zombies out here, too, the only reminder of a regiment now gone, and Yusuf picked his way between the corpses, doing his best not to disturb them.

By the time he reached what remained of Hingham Bridge, it was afternoon and the shadows were lengthening around him. There were ever-increasing numbers of zombies present, as well; Yusuf narrowly escaped a bite, slicing through the zombie’s throat with a snarl. Blood splattered across his face, his tunic, but there were more and more of them flooding in to fill the gaps.

It was all a mere matter of time.

Too many zombies; even someone who would not remain dead could not beat them all. It did not matter if his wounds were healing up if they would just open again under torn fingernails, blunt teeth.

He fell, the first time, saif still in his hand, and felt a dozen hands on him, teeth tearing into him and then–

Yusuf woke again, choking on blood, pain thudding through his head and he could hear– He could hear _chewing_ and where was he, why could he–

One quick, drawn-in gasp of breath, eyes open again, only he could hear snarling in his ear, this time; he held onto his saif tight enough that it almost hurt, with the distant hope it would not be prised from him, and then back under–

He managed, around his seventh death, to move his legs, to tug his saif closer against his torso, his fingers tacky with blood, and with each successive reawakening, the zombies were fighting more and more amongst themselves, doing their best to feed from a constantly replenishing supply. Yusuf felt something sharp and sudden–

Eventually, he woke in a lull, staring up at the night sky, and lashed out before another could get its teeth into his brain. Yusuf got to his feet. His chest prickled as it healed; his head throbbed, although he felt whole again. 

The zombies closed in, desperate for their next meal and Yusuf was determined not to oblige again. He could see the bridge in the distance – what was left of it – and could see, too, the dots of light, of red on the opposite side. Even if he threw himself into the canal and came back to life, even if he did somehow scale the walls out, he would be killed in an instant.

That was, of course, _if._ He did not like his odds of making it out of the water in the first place, and the idea of drowning over and over again did not appeal.

One of the zombies threw itself at him and Yusuf removed its head, before doing the smartest thing he could think of: he turned tail and ran.

***

There was a farmhouse not far from the bridge.

Far enough that the hordes were not banging at the door – though Yusuf was unsure how long that would last, now that he was here – but not so far as St Lazarus. 

The door was half off its hinges and Yusuf closed it behind himself as quietly as he was able. At least the moon was bright; he walked from room to room, climbing the creaky stairs, and when he was satisfied that there were no zombies within, he settled in one of the bedrooms.

He thought it might have been the master bedroom, but the whole house was so decrepit that Yusuf could assume it had likely been abandoned in the first massacre, decades before. He did not sit on the bed. Instead, he sat on the floor, back to the wall opposite the door – if anything came in, he was positive he would hear. His saif rested on his knees. He could not sleep.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to the question that had been nagging him since he had run from Hingham Bridge: what if he was not immortal? He could not be sure this was not all some elaborate dream – could not determine where the dream had begun, in his prior life. Or perhaps he had died in Nicolò’s arms and now he was in Jahannam, destined to face the zombies over and over until he was deemed worthy to enter Jannah.

Yusuf’s next breath trembled. The better question was, regardless of the truth, what had he done to deserve this? A zombie howled in the distance and he shook, did not dare lift his head to look out of the window. Why had Nicolò not waited, looked to see if he would come back to life?

He knew why.

Why had Nile not come back across the bridge to find them both, to remain behind with him?

He knew why.

Another howl – this one was further away. No noise inside the house. Yusuf took one deep breath and then a second, focusing only on that until he could no longer hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

If he was to be cut off from the rest of the country for the foreseeable future, then he had to do something about it and, for now, his best chances lay in London. The city had fallen, sure, but it had also one million people living within; some of them must still be alive. If Yusuf found survivors then he might also find food, shelter, safety.

He remembered what Nile had told him, that she had dreamed of the others before she had ever met them. Nicolò had written it in his letter. A signal, he had written, that would lead them to him. Except, Yusuf could not be sure that they would make it here; dreams did not give them the ability to cross the canal, and for a second his blood ran cold at the thought of Nile, dreaming of him and yet unable to do anything to help.

Yusuf had a decision to make and it was a surprisingly simple one. He would travel to London. He would find his own way out. The thought calmed him. He did not need to worry excessively that he would never escape, that the zombies would truly have him forever.

When he heard another howl, Yusuf did not even flinch. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the letters within. 

Leyla’s, he folded neatly, and then put back.

He re-read Nicolò’s. Traced _I cannot fix the hour or the spot or the look or the words_ and swallowed down the lump in his throat, the hot sting at the back of his eyes. Ti amo, Nicolò had said to him, had _meant_ it and Yusuf respected Nicolò not wishing to hear the words in return but he regretted having not said them anyway, now.

He fell asleep, finally, murmuring, “Nhebek, Nicolò,” like a mantra. He could only hope Nicolò would hear it.

***

The dreams, at least, had the courtesy to be clearly that, so when Yusuf saw Nicolò on his knees, crying in the dark, he knew it had already happened and his heart broke a little. 

It shattered into innumerable pieces when his father came out to comfort Nicolò – for Yusuf knew his father well enough to understand exactly what he was doing – and when he saw Nile, doing her best to push down her grief, to comfort her mother and Karima and Eli.

He saw a flash of Sebastien, passing by the sitting room once an hour, and saw the soft way Andromache looked at Nile when his family finally retired.

Yusuf woke at dawn with damp cheeks and was not entirely certain whether the zombies, the loneliness, or the dreams would break him first.

Somewhere outside, a zombie groaned. Yusuf brushed away tears. His family were safe. Nicolò would protect them.

And one day, Yusuf would return. No matter what, he would make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it's way easier to write dialogue, who knew! dw, back to normal from tomorrow re: that and i might even dial it down on the angst a bit!
> 
> (i mean, i almost definitely won't)
> 
> also! turns out i have [a tumblr](http://kyra-bane.tumblr.com) so if you have any requests/thoughts, feel free to get in touch over there! atm, i have a post up for kinktober - i'm mainly focusing on joe/nicky but am open to other tog pairings, so if you want to request anything please please do! (i'll also be posting that on this site, so if you're not interested in being 1000ft of tumblr, keep an eye out tomorrow 🥰)


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leyla reveals what she knows. Nile receives a proposal.

They held a small funeral for Yusuf three days after his death. Without a body, Mr Al-Kaysani had explained, the event was not as it traditionally should have been, but they were to hold a memorial regardless. Andromache had sent for two Sajjādāt, gifting one to Mr Al-Kaysani, who had accepted it with gracious thanks and the offer of repayment, which she had outright refused. The other, she had given to Karima, who had burst into tears and run from the room; her father accepted it instead. 

Now, they were in one of Rosing’s sitting rooms; Mr Al-Kaysani was reciting prayers from memory and Karima’s eyes were downcast but she mouthed them along with him. Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman had a hand on her husband’s arm; Eli held Leyla as she sobbed. Nile was sitting by Sebastien’s side, her fingers curled into the fabric of her black dress. 

Nicolò had taken a seat behind them all, Andromache with him. Even she had her head bowed out of respect but Nicolò did not dare lower his gaze. What if something happened? He could not be anything but vigilant. He could not take the risk.

He had dreamt of Yusuf again. This time, he had been pulled down, torn to pieces more than once, whispered _nhebek, Nicolò_ over and over and Nicolò knew it was simply a manifestation of his own guilt but he could not stop thinking about it. He had asked Sebastien if he had the same dreams, if only because he knew he would not survive Andromache’s pity. 

“No,” Sebastien had replied and his eyes had been tight.

Nicolò did not ask again; knew he would not ask again. Yusuf was dead. 

Yusuf was _dead._

The thought hit him and he was crying before he knew it, though he did his best to remain silent. Andromache reached over, took his hand, and he clung to her. 

When it was all over, Nicolò left the room only once everyone else had gone before him. Sebastien caught him in the hall, tugged him gently to another sitting room, the one the three of them had been using; Sebastien had told Nile to find them there but she had not entered when Nicolò had been present.

“Drink this,” Sebastien said, pressing a glass into his hand and part of Nicolò wanted to laugh. What good would it do? Even if he drank enough to forget, he would likely die first, and then he would wake up and remember.

He did not wish to remember.

“Nicolò,” Andromache said, almost a sigh, and he dropped into the armchair opposite her with none of his usual restraint. “I _am_ sorry, Nicolò.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” he replied, his voice hoarse. He threw back the drink and held up the glass for another, choosing to ignore the way Andromache and Sebastien exchanged a look. 

“What?” Sebastien said. He aimed for a light-hearted tone but had missed quite dramatically. “You blame yourself for what happened?”

“How can I not?” Nicolò said.

Andromache opened her mouth again, brows knitting into a frown, but all three turned their heads when they heard voices out in the corridor.

“You cannot just go in there and–”

“Are you going to stop me, Nile, really? And how? You will cut me down and then explain to mama and baba that they have lost another child?”

Inside the room, all three flinched. Nile and Leyla – and Nicolò could not fathom what had brought on the argument.

The door opened and Leyla stormed into the room, though she appeared to lose her momentum upon realising that they were all watching her intently. Nile stepped in behind her, one hand on the door.

“Apologies for the interruption,” she said and she was looking at Sebastien, then Andromache, her gaze sliding over Nicolò as though he was not even there.

He wished, suddenly, that Sebastien had given him the second drink.

Leyla seemed to notice the slight, too; her eyes were red and swollen from crying but her expression darkened and colour flooded her cheeks.

“Close the door, Nile,” she said.

“What? Leyla, we need to go–”

“Close it.” Andromache. She was not looking at Nile, but at Leyla, and Nile nodded, did as she was told. 

Whatever the fight had been about, Nile still stepped up, angling herself ever so slightly between her sister and the rest of the room. Leyla looked at them each in turn and only when she set eyes on Nicolò did her expression soften.

“Was there something you wished to say to us?” Andromache asked. She projected an indifferent, affected air but Nicolò saw the tension, tight around her eyes.

Leyla lifted her chin and she embodied enough of Yusuf’s spirit in that one move that Nicolò found it suddenly hard to breathe. “I know what you are,” she said. “All _four_ of you.”

Nile took a step back. “I– You _what?”_

Nicolò had already known; or, at least, he had already thought Merrick had told her, whether she believed it or not. 

“And how did you come to discover that?” Andromache asked. Her voice was dangerous now and Nile squared her shoulders in response. Leyla swallowed – she was still young, after all – but shook her head.

“Merrick told me, of course. He could not _stop_ talking about what you all were, what you planned.” She looked at Nile. “He said Yusuf was… was the one, not you, but I already knew he was wrong. Once he explained it, it made sense.”

Nile shook her head. “You knew?”

“I knew that you had stopped training with us how you did before. And I saw– I was certain I saw Yusuf cut you one day, by accident, only you did not have a mark on you that evening. Never a bruise, or a scratch.” She laughed. “The only reason Eli did not notice is because he his head is so full of Jane he cannot think straight.”

“Does Karima…?”

“No.”

They were all silent for a moment and Nicolò remembered when they had first met Nile, the way Andromache had threatened Yusuf and he had brushed it off, unconcerned for anything except his family. 

“You will not tell anyone?” Sebastien asked and Nicolò found himself surprised by the rough timbre of his friend’s voice.

“Of course not,” Leyla said, and she threw Sebastien an insulted look. If nothing else, Nicolò thought, the Al-Kaysanis were terribly loyal to one another, because Nile had reached for her sister at that, as though to protect her.

“But you understand what your sister is, you said? She will not age. She will not sicken, or die.”

Leyla’s small hands balled into fists. “What do you think I thought of when I was chained up in St Lazarus?” Her eyes searched his face and when she saw whatever she was looking for, she shook her head. “Do you think, for a moment, that I wished for her to take my place? Do you think, now, I would weep because I may die tomorrow and she will not? Forgive me for the question, monsieur, but does it hurt less to lose a loved one when you cannot die?”

Sebastien had gone very pale, his knuckles white from holding the glass in his hand so tightly. “No.”

“Then how dare you insult me, on the day we have done our best by my brother, and think that I would turn against Nile because of this?” Nile made a small sound behind her but Leyla did not stop, cheeks flushed with anger and Nicolò was struck by the question Yusuf had asked when leaving Netherfield.

_“Did you die for something you believed in?”_

“Just because your family did not take the news so benevolently, Monsieur le Livre, does not mean that others will react the same way. If I feel anything at all for this gift you all have, it is sadness. All you have is each other and while that might be enough, it will not protect you from losing everyone else you care about.”

Sebastien set the glass down, perhaps a little heavier than he had intended, and cleared his throat. “My apologies, Miss Al-Kaysani. Excuse me.”

He left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar in his haste, and Nile hissed, “Leyla,” before she followed. There was no heat in it; if anything, she sounded as surprised as Nicolò felt.

Before St Lazarus, he had little memory of Leyla. Certainly, all he remembered was a young woman giggling and gossiping. That had evidently been an unfair assumption.

Leyla closed her eyes for a second, wiping fresh tears from her face before she turned to look at the two of them. Nicolò glanced at Andromache; she seemed more at ease than she had before.

“I assume you did not come here to scold Sebastien,” she said.

Leyla bit her lip. “No. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Andromache replied and Leyla’s eyes widened in surprise. “Sometimes it is easy for us to forget about other people. Sebastien is – by our standards – still young. He gets caught up in his emotions, sometimes.” 

Nicolò wanted to laugh. As if he was not doing exactly that. “Why did you come here, Leyla?” he asked.

“To speak to you, signor,” she said. “I wanted, simply, to ask that you do not blame yourself for Yusuf’s death.”

God in heaven, she saw through him much the same way Yusuf had, to his shame. “I was there, Miss Al-Kaysani. I can understand the rest of your family not blaming me, but knowing what you know, that I cannot die… How can you not?”

She shrugged one shoulder and her eyes were shining again but she managed the ghost of a smile. “Because I knew my brother’s character very well. I know that even with his knowledge of what you all are, he would not have hesitated to throw himself in danger’s path.” 

“It was not like that, I distracted him, I–”

“You were with him, were you not? When he died?”

Nicolò, silent, nodded.

“So he was not scared?” Her voice trembled. “He was not alone?”

“No.”

“Then all I can do is thank you, signor. Thank you for being with him, in the end.”

Nicolò did not know what to say. It did not seem to matter to Leyla. She ducked her head to him, to Andromache, and turned for the door.

“Nile hates me,” he said and she paused, the door half-open, looking back.

“Because she cannot hate me,” she replied and then she was gone.

***

Nile found Sebastien out by the pond. He was pacing, ranting to himself in French and she was not sure she should have followed, really, except that following Sebastien meant she did not have to deal with Leyla, the sister who had grown from an impulsive, flighty girl into an insightful woman almost overnight.

Perhaps she had always been this way, inside her own head. How was Nile to know? 

He paused when he saw her there and Nile knew he was hurting, she just did not know _why._

“I am sorry for my sister’s impetuousness, monsieur,” she said and Sebastien let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

“Impetuousness?” He shook his head. “She was right, Nile. I thought she would hate you. I thought she should! And she may, still… the first time she gets sick, when your parents die, your siblings–”

Nile grasped his hands and Sebastien stopped speaking all at once, the righteous anger flowing out of his tense frame. “What happened, Sebastien?”

He blinked back tears, looked at the sky, the pond, everywhere but her face. “I had a family, before. A wife. Children. Over a century ago, now. Before the zombies had ever arisen.”

She did not let go and his fingers tightened around hers. 

“I told them what I was,” he said, “And they _hated_ me for it, in the end. When they got sick. When their children died, my grandchildren. There was nothing I could do, of course not, but they cursed me for having this ability instead of them, for seemingly doing nothing as their lives changed and came to slow, painful ends.”

He swallowed and finally met her eyes.

“I hated myself.”

“Do you still?”

“I do not know,” he said, and let go. 

Nile wrapped her arms around herself. Sebastien looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, and closed it again.

She felt as though she had missed something terribly important.

“You know you will have to leave them, eventually,” he said. It was not what he had wanted to say before, she was certain.

“I know.” That day still felt far off, further, somehow, with Leyla now knowing the truth as well.

“If you…” His ears had turned pink. “If you married me, it would be easier.”

That had been the plan all along, of course. The letters, the visits. And yet, his saying it did have her heart beating a little faster. She was not in love with him, of course. She had seen how Yusuf had looked at–

 _This_ was not love. It was not.

“Yes.”

“We all have money. It is simply… something to accrue, over time. Our marriage would be only in name but I would still take care of your family.” 

She managed a smile. “And I assume I would never be expected to give up my sword?”

“I think Andromache would kill me should the thought ever cross my mind,” Sebastien said and his lips twitched.

Nile nodded, stepping forward, her arms clasped behind her back. “So, is this your idea of a proposal, monsieur?”

He reached out without thought, brushing his thumb along her jaw. Nile closed her eyes at the touch.

“Give me a week or two,” he said. “I can certainly muster up something better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i added the angst tag last chapter and i'm still on the fence about adding a booker/nile pairing so do not be surprised if that comes up! it is v v much background i just think they're cute
> 
> also! i am going to do kinktober this year; i posted a prompt list [on ao3 here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26543020) so if you would like to request anything, please go check it out! i've had a few requests on tumblr already lol so if a prompt is calling to you and has already been taken, feel free to add a comment anyway and i'll see what i can do.
> 
> [you can find me on tumblr here](http://kyra-bane.tumblr.com)
> 
> also also i am getting through comment replies! should be up to date tomorrow 🥰 as usual, too, thanks for reading 🖤


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf adapts to his new life - and makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a fair bit of zombie biting and killing in this one, kind of all over the place, so uh watch out for that. other than that: it's longer than i expected it to be when i planned it, so enjoy!

Yusuf set out for London the morning after his initial death. There had been no food in the farmhouse – not that he had expected there to be – and he did not much like the idea of drawing water from the well on the property, either. No doubt it had not been maintained and, while it was apparent he would not die from drinking anything tainted, he still did not relish the opportunity to test that theory.

Whatever zombies had been in the area the night before appeared to have moved on and the first few hours passed without incident; Yusuf cut through tall grass, wandered well-worn paths. He knew that he was, broadly, heading in the right direction, Hingham Bridge at his back.

Although he did his best to remain alert, vigilant, he could not help the turns his thoughts were taking. He had slept little the night before, torn between his need to listen out for any threat and his mixed feelings about the dreams that flashed behind his eyes when he did doze off. He wanted to sink into them, to be reunited with his family in any possible manner.

He also wished he did not have them at all. His family were grieving him and he could do nothing to tell them where he was, that he was alive and well – in body, at least.

He wanted to wrap Nile in his arms and tell her it was not her fault. She would turn it on the others, of course, as she was occasionally wont to do, but he knew she regretted letting him chase after Nicolò, even as she knew there was nothing she could have done to change his mind.

And Nicolò, poor Nicolò – for him, Yusuf was another sad weight to be carried around on his shoulders, and yet it was not his fault, either.

None of them had known the truth about Merrick but if any should have deduced it, it was Yusuf. Merrick had practically _told_ him, at the ball; Yusuf remembered the way his eyes had shone with glee and shuddered. Wind blew through the trees, through his tunic, which was almost torn to shreds after the incident the previous day. 

Merrick was dead. Yusuf had seen his body when he had dragged himself up, dressed himself again in his own clothes. Nicolò had done that. He had kissed Yusuf, too, as he had been asked; had destroyed him, as he had been asked.

Yusuf exhaled sharply. They could all blame themselves, each carrying an ouroboros of their own guilt and doubt and shame, but it would ultimately achieve nothing.

The truth was: he would find his way back to them. If they were sharing the same dreams he did, then they would find their way to him first, perhaps. 

The thought bolstered him and he suffered no injury at the hands of the zombies he came across on the rest of his journey. They seemed to have scattered now – or perhaps the stronger, newer zombies were still back at the bridge – because the ones he found were bloated and rotting, barely able to keep themselves upright.

He knew things would be different in the city. For one thing, he could smell it before he saw it. 

Yusuf had never had reason to visit London, though his father had – Nile, Eli, and her mother had all been there too, before their parents had married. They had all remembered the stink of it; it was an impressive place, for sure, full of people and an ever-changing landscape.

He thought the smell that reached him now, however, had an awful lot more to do with the undead than it did with a crammed-in mass of people.

There were more zombies the closer he came to the city and Yusuf took to ducking between small houses, cursing when his boots made too much noise on the cobbled streets. The walk had taken most of the daylight hours; dusk was falling by the time he reached the city proper and he was thirsty, too, felt as though he was covered in a thin layer of grime.

He found himself in a small courtyard behind a row of houses, flies buzzing in his ears, the stench thick enough to choke on. Bodies were strewn about the flagstones, but the buildings appeared to have fared well enough; the doors were still standing, the windows unbroken. Perhaps there would be something to eat or drink inside, a change of clothing, and Yusuf muttered a quick prayer under his breath as he stepped over each corpse in turn.

Really, he should have been expecting it. Still, when the hand grabbed his ankle, it startled him, and he swung his saif before he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. This second zombie was on him in seconds – had it been waiting, watching him? – and when Yusuf fell, he pulled it down with him. They struggled, its teeth gnashing furiously, blood and who knew what else dripping from the putrid holes in its face, and when its teeth sank into his arm, Yusuf bit his lip to muffle his cries. He got his saif up between them, removing its head in one clean motion and the body collapsed atop him, impossibly heavy.

He felt the burning under his skin again, a heavy fog descending over his mind, everything seeming to move faster than it had outside St Lazarus. Still, it was not long before he was blinking awake, gasping in his first new breath, and with some effort, he managed to push the zombie corpse away.

At least he appeared to have solved the issue of his thirst, for now. Yusuf picked up his saif, hauled himself to his feet, and removed the head of the zombie that had initially grabbed him, the one that had been doing its best to crawl its way over. That done, he let himself into one of the houses, bolting the door firmly behind him before he did a quick sweep of the building. 

Like the farmhouse, it was empty. Yusuf entered one of the bedrooms, pushed all the furniture he could find in front of the door. 

Unlike at the farmhouse, he passed out almost immediately and this time, he did not dream.

***

It did not take Yusuf long to fall into a routine. He found the nearest water pump the next day and carried as much back as he reasonably could while still holding his saif in his right hand. There were clothes that would fit him in one of the other houses along the row. They were perhaps more threadbare than he was used to but he could not bring himself to care. Still, he was saddened to lose his bloodstained sirwal, though pleased when he realised that the height of fashion for a working man in London was clearly more loose-fitting than what he had been expecting. Breeches would have been a nightmare.

The first day, after finding and fetching the water, he did his best to clear the courtyard. He was uncertain what to do with the bodies – he could not, after all, burn them and risk attracting all the zombies in London to him – so in the end, he piled them up in one of the empty houses, muttering a prayer over each one. He hoped they would not mind the Arabic that spilled from his mouth but he could not remember what else to say and, ultimately, the sentiment was there. He did not know how long it had been since their souls had left.

Yusuf sluiced down the flagstones with more water, brushed away the worst of the blood and gore, and as the sun began to set, he surveyed the area with some satisfaction. He could survive here, he thought, for a time – and did his best to hold onto that feeling as he ate the gruel he had formed from a bag of oats in the kitchen, a single candle flickering by his head.

That night, he still barricaded the bedroom door, but took out Nicolò’s letter again before he slept. It became his routine over the next couple of weeks; no matter what he had done in the day, whether moving more bodies, killing more zombies, he sat on the hard, rickety bed and read Nicolò’s words by the light of his ever-decreasing stock of candles, although he did not need it. The letters were imprinted on his heart, and he would carry them with him forever.

***

One month after his first death, Yusuf realised that the others were not going to come for him. He was not certain why. 

He was walking through the streets this morning, his saif in a loose grip. Last night, he had dreamt of Nile, of Sebastien – they were returned to Netherfield and Longbourn, he thought, and Sebastien had proposed. 

Nile had kissed him and Yusuf had thought, _isn’t that odd_ and woken to the sound of a zombie scratching at the courtyard door. 

He had made quick work of it and, after breakfast, after ruminating on the fact that he had not dreamt of Nicolò in a week or more, had decided to go and begin cutting down his exile time zombie by zombie. Even if he kept at it forever, he doubted he would be able to kill them all – except, a traitorous voice in the back of his head whispered, of course he _would,_ because there was a finite number of zombies and he could not, in fact, stay dead – but taking them out a few at a time had been proven to make him feel better.

More proactive, at least.

His feet took him a familiar route, to Hyde Park, where the zombies liked to lurk in the trees, although Yusuf was unsure what they were waiting for. There had to be other people in London, still living, but he had yet to see one. Still, the zombies had animals to sustain them if they became ravenous – he had seen one lunge for a raven a few days before, not that it had been successful in its hunt.

Even as he walked through the gates into the park, he saw a zombie standing on the path. Yusuf spun his saif in his hand lazily. He had not bothered to train since his first death – he got all the training he needed, now, on a daily basis.

The zombie roared, _ran_ at him and Yusuf felt the feral grin that split his face as he stepped up to meet it, as he spotted another two ducking from their covers in the trees. Ah. He had come across a small cluster of them, then, which would prove to at least be a distraction from his own thoughts.

He took out the first at the knees, removing a leg, and then he was moving past it, ducked outstretched arms as he slashed across another zombie’s torso, stepped back up to his full height and removed the third’s head.

His boot crushed the skull of the second zombie, the one whose intestines were spilling out onto the path, and then he was back over the first, his saif raised. It had landed on its back and did not appear to know how to turn back over, but it reached out with a meaty arm, bared its teeth.

Yusuf drove his saif through its skull and, when he was sure it was destroyed, removed it with a sickening, slick sound. He cleaned the blood off on the zombie’s clothes. 

Three was not bad, though he knew he would find more zombies further in the park. Except – he looked back.

He looked back to the entrance of the park and saw a child standing there. Yusuf did not drop his saif, but it was a close thing. Their hair was cropped short, their skin pale and pinched, like they had not eaten enough.

They were not a zombie, Yusuf knew that.

They stared at him with big, dark eyes, and they did not seem afraid so much as _aware_ and Yusuf thanked all his lucky stars that he had not been killed in this fight.

He took a step forward, opened his mouth, and whatever spell had been binding them together was broken. The child turned and ran and Yusuf paused for a moment – only a moment – before he followed.

***

The problem was, he lost track of the child almost immediately. Once outside of the immediate area he had been exploring for the last month, Yusuf had no idea where the twists-and-turns of every alley could lead and, after an hour, he gave up with a muttered curse. 

Part of him was elated, of course – a child meant there would likely be others, be adults, which meant he was not the only person facing the undead in this city. 

He would have liked to find them, however.

Yusuf turned back, hoping he could find his way out of this tangle of streets and back to his little row house, and when he heard the sound of a boot on stone, he raised his saif just in time to meet another blade.

It did not matter. The press of a musket to the back of his neck sent a cold shiver down his spine.

“Who are you?” a voice asked. Male. Adult, too – if Yusuf had to guess, he would have said his own age.

“Joseph,” he said because he could not risk using his own name if his family thought he was dead.

The man snorted. “You introduce yourself with only your Christian name?”

Yusuf dared to turn his head. He had not dropped his saif, was still holding it up against the stranger’s sword, but he felt as though he might not immediately be shot. “Not Christian,” he corrected, meeting the man’s gaze.

He was as dark-skinned as Nile and his eyes were sharply intelligent as he looked Yusuf over. “Apparently not,” he said and then the musket was away from Yusuf’s skin, if not holstered.

Yusuf took a step back, a safer distance and did not sheath his saif.

“I’m Copley,” the man said. “Are you alone?”

“Sadly, yes. I got caught out in the In Between, before the bridge blew.”

Copley made a sympathetic noise. “The soldiers were supposed to evacuate the city. They did a good job in some areas. In others…” His voice trembled with anger and his eyes sketched the landscape around them. They were standing near another row of houses, all stacked haphazardly together and it did not take much thought on Yusuf’s part to understand his point. 

“How many are left?”

“Unclear. We found a lot of people at first. You’re the first stranger anyone has come across in two weeks.” He nodded his head at Yusuf’s weapon. “With that, I am not surprised. I did not expect you to hear me coming.”

“I have done nothing but fight zombies for weeks, Mr Copley. If I had not heard you coming, I would have been deeply ashamed.”

Copley let out a bark of laughter at that and, finally, sheathed his own sword. The musket he kept in his hand, but he did not seem inclined to point it at Yusuf anymore. “Come,” he said. “Let me introduce you to the others.”

Yusuf followed him, half out of curiosity and half because he had not seen another _person_ in a month and he was not about to let this opportunity pass him by. Copley saw something in these streets that Yusuf did not; he navigated them with the ease of someone who had grown up running them and Yusuf wondered if that was at the heart of his anger.

It was not long before they were waiting at a door, Copley rapping a rhythm with his knuckles against the wood. Several bolts slid free on the other side and then the door was opened an inch, fully only when the woman standing there recognised Copley’s face.

Her eyes fell to Yusuf and they were full of suspicion. 

“Miss Lucas,” Copley said, inclining his head to her and she stepped aside, let them pass. Inside, the house was full, and everyone fell silent as they realised Yusuf was among them.

“Where is Keane?” Copley asked.

Someone muttered something, pointed to another room, and Copley thanked them with a smile before he led Yusuf through. Children darted from shadow to shadow and Yusuf couldn’t help but feel uneasy; whether this unease was aimed at the people within the house, or the faulty logic of piling all the survivors into one place, he was not certain.

“Copley!” a man said, getting to his feet. He was sitting in the nicest armchair in the place but Yusuf could see, quickly, how he had risen to a position where Copley was asking after him, specifically. He was broad in the shoulders and held in his posture a similar kind of danger that Yusuf had seen in several soldiers who had returned from the In Between.

He had seen it in Nicolò’s posture, too, and certainly in Andromache’s. The man was a warrior.

“This is Joseph,” Copley said, waving a hand at Yusuf, who came back to the moment.

“Only Joseph?” Keane asked.

“Yes.” Perhaps he would have to find a new surname. It did not seem important here and he was not ready to give his up just yet.

“Copley,” Keane said and he had his arm around Copley’s shoulders now, an apparently companiable move, although the pressure seemed to be anything but. “You know we cannot feed anyone else. Especially this–” He gave Yusuf a look, realised he was listening, smiled, and moved them both further away.

Yusuf did not much care. He was feeling more and more uncomfortable about being here; he clearly was recognised as an outsider, and an unwelcome one at that. 

“My apologies, _Joseph,”_ Keane said suddenly, leaving Copley where they had been standing. “But you can see that we are already overrun. One more mouth to feed is one too many.”

The man had no compassion. And he was in charge of this rabble? Copley’s eyes were downcast and Yusuf wondered if he was ashamed.

Yusuf managed a not-quite-insolent shrug. “I did not ask to come here,” he said, because it was true and it was gratifying to see the way Keane’s eyes widened. “But if _you_ require any assistance, I would be happy to help. I found several food stores, over near Marylebone. More food than I have use for.”

Keane opened his mouth and then closed it again. “You–”

“If you need anything, you only have to ask. I have found somewhere to live over there; it should be easy enough for you to find. One of the children found me today so I have no doubt they can do so again.”

All the faces in the room had turned toward them and Yusuf could hear that the other room was still; it was as though the entire house was holding its breath.

Keane smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “You are too generous, Joseph. We would certainly be grateful for your assistance.”

Yusuf nodded. He itched to leave. “Send someone to me tomorrow. I will have supplies ready for you.”

He ducked his head and Keane could do nothing else but return the short bow, although it clearly pained him to do so. Yusuf turned on his heel and left the house, noting that Miss Lucas was now surveying him with far less suspicion as she scrambled to unbolt the door.

Once outside, Yusuf turned down two alleys before he paused, resting against a wall to just breathe. Something about Keane’s attitude had burrowed straight under his skin and he could not afford to be rude, here. These were his people now, his community; he could not survive as a monolith and expect to remain whole.

Copley rounded the corner. “You do not wish to stay with us?” 

“I highly doubt Keane would allow me to – and if he did, he would not allow me to do as I like.”

“And what is it you like to do, Joseph?” He said Yusuf’s new name as though he knew it was not real. It was close enough.

“Kill zombies,” Yusuf said. “The more we kill, the faster we can return.”

“Do you really think they will let us? Do you think they will build another bridge to find the people they cast off, left behind?”

Fear seized Yusuf’s heart. “I have to,” he said on a sudden, short breath. “It is the only thing I can believe.”

For a moment, they were both silent; Copley’s eyes searched Yusuf’s face.

“Alright,” he said. “Then I will come with you.” 

***

The next three months passed slowly. Keane sent children from the house to retrieve supplies every other day; Yusuf realised quickly that none were armed, trained, and so he spent mornings handing out daggers he had found, training them the way he had trained Nile and Eli and Karima and Leyla. 

Copley was a quiet, steady presence. They both held some deep sadness, that much had been clear to Yusuf immediately, but he was easy enough to get along with, ever-steady and reliable with his sword. Now that Yusuf had a better lay of the land, they had begun burning the corpses they found, dared to use the stove in the kitchen – the likelihood of a zombie attack was still relatively high, but at least Yusuf no longer had to fear a more human enemy.

Even his dreams had settled somewhat. Sebastien and Nicolò had remained at Netherfield and when Yusuf dreamt of Nicolò, he saw the patient way he listened to Leyla, his apparently ever-present companion. Nile was caught up in wedding planning and the fact that she did not appear to be speaking to Nicolò made his heart hurt, but there was nothing he could do about that from here.

He wrote them both letters, when he could, when they came across paper and ink that had not dried out. Tucked them away in a box under his bed. Copley never asked about them and Yusuf never volunteered any information.

It had all been going too well, when everything collapsed around him.

He and Copley had begun heading further into the city, where the zombies were at their thickest. They attacked the stragglers, here, careful to never draw in a horde, and although Yusuf knew they were picking off the zombies one by one, they had yet to find a more efficient method.

Copley had grabbed one, slit its throat cleanly, and had not seen the other coming up behind him. Yusuf, finished beheading his own, pushed Copley aside, and when he felt the zombie take a chunk out of his back, he cursed in three languages. It _hurt,_ every time, and he disliked the fact that some part of him was getting used to it.

Copley killed the zombie; Yusuf had collapsed against the wall and had his hands clenched into fists. The familiar burning etched under his skin. 

“Joseph, you–”

He could not explain. Not now – not that Copley would believe him – but he realised, with a sudden shock of horror, that he _would_ have to tell him everything.

“Do not behead me,” he said. “Any other way – do it, and then wait.”

Copley only looked confused. “What?”

“Do what I _say,”_ Yusuf said. “Run me through, if you have to. But just, wait, after.”

“What am I waiting for?” 

“You will see. Do it. Do it _now.”_

Copley slit his throat and Yusuf’s last thought was that he would have to find yet another shirt.

When he gasped in his new breath, Copley’s blade was at his throat again, his eyes sharp like flints.

“You– How are you…?”

Yusuf coughed, smeared blood away from his lips. It was already drying on his throat, his chest; all he could smell was copper. 

“Help me up,” he said and Copley’s hand wavered. “I am not going to _eat_ you, Copley; help me up.”

Later, he thought it was the shock that had Copley reaching for him, rather than anything else.

“Come, let us go back.”

They walked back to their house, Yusuf’s eyes darting and wary; he had too much blood on him to look anything but suspicious. Once inside, Copley slammed him back against the door and Yusuf raised his hands in surrender.

“You are undead.”

“Not in the way you believe.”

“I–”

“Look at my throat, Copley. Have you ever seen a zombie heal?”

Copley looked. He ran his fingers over the skin and took a few tremulous steps back when he realised there was no wound.

“I do not understand. How is this possible?”

Yusuf sighed. He would bathe later, apparently. 

“Sit,” he said. “I will need to start at the beginning.”


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nile and Nicolò reconcile. A wedding takes place at Netherfield.

A week before Nile and Sebastien’s wedding, Nicolò woke with his heart in his throat. He had dreamt, again, of Yusuf dying. 

He sat up, blankets pooling around his waist as he looked about the room with darting, wild eyes. Sunlight was just beginning to peek through his curtains; it had, still, to be early. Another indication of that was the fact that he could hear no noise about Netherfield. Nile and Leyla had taken to spending much of their time at the estate in recent weeks and Leyla was early to rouse and quick to cause some semblance of a racket.

Not that anyone appeared to mind; even Andromache smiled at the girl when she was not looking.

Nicolò climbed out of bed only when his breathing had evened out, the sweat had dried on his body. The advantage of being at Netherfield, aside from being closer to Longbourn and therefore more able to protect Yusuf’s family, was that he was not far from the remains of Hingham Bridge.

He shrugged off his sleepshirt and had already made his decision before the fabric hit the rug. Yesterday had been a year since Yusuf’s passing and Nicolò had barely managed to rouse himself from bed; Leyla had stormed in early, before her return to Longbourn, ripping open the curtains and sitting by his feet until he had lifted his head to look at her.

“He would want you to _live,_ Nicolò.”

“That is the only constant, Leyla.”

“You know what I mean,” she had chided, plucking at the blankets. They had become more familiar with one another after he had taken to training her upon their return to Hertfordshire; he could do nothing but, as she had arrived at Netherfield one morning, alone, sword in her hand and challenged him to a duel.

Sebastien had laughed at him after, if only for the way she had shouted at him when he had the apparent audacity to let her win.

“Come along, Leyla,” Nile had said from just outside the door and Nicolò’s head had dropped back onto his pillow.

Leyla had squeezed his calf through the sheets before she had left. Nile had put her head around the door, just for a moment, murmuring her goodbyes without looking at him.

They were making progress.

Now, Nicolò dressed swiftly. He could be to Hingham Bridge and back before late afternoon. It was the only thing that calmed him after a particularly vicious dream and last night’s had been – brutal.

Clearly, it was not enough that he carried his guilt throughout the day; his leaving Yusuf behind haunted him when he slept, too.

He was off before Sebastien woke, though he was not certain about Andromache. The morning air was chilly, his breath curling into mist before him, and though Nicolò watched for zombies, his thoughts still wandered when he let them.

Last night he had seen Yusuf, again, with someone he did not know. Perhaps someone he had seen, in Meryton or elsewhere, and for some reason his mind had connected this stranger and Yusuf together. They had fought together and Yusuf had pushed him aside, the movement so easy as to be a reflex, and he had been bitten and died. 

Nicolò knew it had to be a dream – an actual figment of his imagination and guilt – because the stranger had not appeared to be scared or concerned; instead, he had looked irritated for a moment, and then terribly, terribly fond.

Who would react like that to seeing a friend die?

He drove his horse on and when he reached the bridge, the scatter of soldiers still there to make sure no zombies made it out of the dark, deep canal, he stopped, took a breath. One soldier was already breaking off from the pack, approaching him.

“Signor di Genova,” he said and Nicolò leapt from his horse, reached out his hand for a shake.

“Lieutenant Danny.” 

The lieutenant had requested permanent station at the bridge, Nicolò had heard – from Leyla, who mixed in local gossip with her lively retellings of Yusuf’s life, of her family’s lives. He was always quick to greet Nicolò and did not eye him with as much suspicion as the other soldiers, who could not glean his reasons for coming to the middle of nowhere to see nothing.

“How has it been?”

“You were last here three days ago, signor,” Lieutenant Danny said and Nicolò hoped his ears were not turning red. Perhaps _that_ was why the soldiers were not keen to see him; they thought he was coming to inspect their efforts.

“I know,” he replied quietly. Something in the lieutenant’s eyes softened.

“All quiet. We still get a few throwing themselves off the edge, but the fall tends to get them.” 

Nicolò nodded. “Do you think…?”

“Too early to say, signor. Between what we’ve seen here and reports from stations at the other bridges, we believe most of the undead remain in the city. It stands to reason there might be some survivors there. Might _have_ been.”

Nicolò, unbidden, thought of Yusuf again. Yusuf was dead. And yet, if he were not and Nicolò had left him in that Hell…

He was dead. Yusuf was dead and had been for a year and Nicolò had dreamt of him almost every night because he felt guilty. That was the only explanation.

He nodded to Lieutenant Danny and then left him there, making his way to what remained of the bridge. He still remembered the rough stone at his back, the feeling of his arm knitting back together where he had landed on it, and his ears had been ringing but he was not sure if it was because of the explosion or because of the enormity of what he had done.

Nicolò stood at the edge, staring down at the water below. He could see zombies in it, some still moving, and he looked again at the banks that led down to it, searched for any handhold with sharp eyes.

None, nothing; just as it had been every time he had come here before. He put his hands in his pockets and took a step back from the edge. What would he do, if he made his way over there? Spend years and years in the In Between? Journey to London and search for a few, huddled survivors?

Perhaps he _should._ He had been doing the one thing he had promised to do – protecting Yusuf’s family – for a year now. What would he do when they married, scattered, raised their own families? 

Nicolò sighed and turned his back on the In Between. He would help them, of course, in any way that he could. 

Lieutenant Danny nodded to him as Nicolò mounted his horse and Nicolò raised a hand in reply before he rode away.

***

The morning of Nile and Sebastien’s wedding, Nicolò woke from another nightmare. 

He groaned aloud – actually groaned! – and buried his head back in his pillow, wishing, for just a moment, that he could be done with the whole day. He was, of course, Sebastien’s best man and therefore would be expected to attend and it was not as though he could avoid it, as Sebastien had requested a special license to have the ceremony performed in Netherfield’s ballroom. 

Yusuf had died again, in his dream, and Nicolò thought it might be an omen, for one brief moment.

Someone hammered on his door.

“Who on earth–”

“Nicolò!” Leyla. Of course. Nicolò twisted in his sheets until he found a clock face. It was still early. Why was she here?

“Give me a moment.”

“Are you not dressed?” she said, a laugh in her voice, but he heard the slump of her shoulders against the wood.

“It is still early.”

She hummed a reply and Nicolò dressed quickly, more disoriented than offended at her intrusion. It was difficult to be offended by her at the best of times. He could not begrudge her excitement today of all days.

Once dressed, he brushed his hair back from his face with his fingers and opened the door. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes.

“It will do, I suppose,” she said. “I presume you are making more of an effort, later?”

Nicolò opened his mouth and closed it again. She giggled. She was clearly not yet dressed for the wedding, either; she wore black breeches and a shirt that, from its fit, Nicolò suspected was not hers. 

“Why are you here so early? The wedding is not until the afternoon.”

“Yes, I know. Nile sent me for you.”

“Nile? I–” They had not had a conversation in a year; she had only begun saying hello and goodbye to him a month or so before. He was sure Sebastien’s insistence was the only reason he was able to attend the wedding.

“Come on,” Leyla said and turned on her heel, leaving him behind. 

Nicolò followed.

Their ride back was almost a race, Leyla ever-competitive and Nicolò happy enough to indulge her. It was also something to distract him from the conversation he was sure was to come; Nile had to have decided she did not want him at her wedding. It would likely not be the only one of her life – he was not certain how many times Andromache had married, over the years – but the first, in front of her entire family, was a special, precious thing.

Nicolò felt a sudden wriggle of guilt that she was marrying Sebastien, too. Not that he believed she did not like him; they were clearly friends. Only, he did not believe they were in love and he wanted her to feel that.

“Keep up!” Leyla shouted, snapping Nicolò out of his reverie and it was not long before Longbourn came into view.

They left their horses to be stabled and Leyla led him into the house. In comparison to Netherfield, everything in Longbourn was busy, and Leyla did not stop to allow him to greet her mother or father; instead, she took him by the arm and dragged him upstairs, stopping only to knock on one of the doors.

“Come in,” Nile said and Leyla opened it, pushing Nicolò in before her.

She was already dressed, layered in silver and white and looked, Nicolò thought quite seriously, like an angel. Leyla bustled in behind him, grabbed Karima by the arm and accompanied her from the room.

The door closed behind her and Nicolò did not know what to say. He did not know why he was here.

“Please, sit,” Nile said and Nicolò took a seat in the only free armchair, not far from her. She twisted her hands in her lap. Someone – perhaps her mother, perhaps Karima – had twisted flowers in the braids atop her head, and the curls behind it diffused the light around her, softened her expression.

Perhaps she was an angel. This was what he had been waiting for, his whole life – vengeance for all the hurt and damage he had caused; Yusuf had been the latest in a long list of terrible mistakes…

Nile grasped his hand and Nicolò looked up, startled. “Breathe,” she said. “You are no use to me if you pass out.” She smiled and Nicolò tentatively returned it.

“You look beautiful,” he said and her smile widened a little, pleased.

“Thank you.” 

They sat for a moment in silence, and when Nicolò had his breathing back under control, he sat up a little straighter in the chair. Nile did not let go of his hand.

“I asked Leyla to come and get you because I knew I needed to speak to you before… before today.”

Nicolò swallowed, his throat dry. “About what?”

“About my behaviour to you, this past year.” She looked down at the floor. “I am sorry, Nicolò. I should never have shut you out, I simply–”

“You were angry with me.”

Her eyes, when they met his, were full of tears. “Yes.”

“You had – and _have_ – every right to be. What I did was unforgiveable.”

“But therein lies the problem! You did not _do_ anything wrong. You did no more than Yusuf did, when I was caught unawares. You did the same thing we are trained to do and I cannot be angry at you for that.”

“He would not have been there if not for me.”

“He would not have been there if not for _Merrick.”_

Nicolò could not hear this. She did not know; she did not understand. He tried to pull his hand back but she did not let go.

“Sebastien told me,” she said and his insides went cold.

“He… What did he tell you?”

“Nothing specific. Only that Merrick had mistreated you. Badly.”

“He did. It does not excuse my not killing him then. It does not excuse our leaving you unprotected, giving him a chance to come after your sister.”

Nile sighed. “Nicolò, I do not blame you for this any more than I blame Leyla. I blame both of you far less than I blame myself, which was the real problem. I should never have let Yusuf go instead of me.” 

“You did what you had to do to protect your sister.”

“And you did what you had to do to protect your family.” She squeezed his hand. _“All_ of us. I have never thanked you for saving her.”

“Nile, I do not– _Please._ I cannot be forgiven for this.”

She sat up straighter and now her eyes were warm. “I really do not think you get to decide that. We choose whether to forgive and I… I have perhaps denied you that for too long.”

Nicolò wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “Nile, I–”

“I want us to be _friends,_ Nicolò. Not today, not tomorrow, but we will get there. The more I see you with Leyla, the more I see you with your family, I see why Yusuf fell in love with you.”

Her voice hitched only minutely on her brother’s name and Nicolò could do nothing but nod.

“Alright,” he said. “I would like us to be friends, too.”

***

The wedding was small, and beautiful, and Nicolò thought he saw even Andromache shed a tear.

Sebastien’s smile, when he saw Nile for the first time, was a bright, precious thing that had Nicolò looking between the two of them, wondering if he had missed something in his own self-absorption and grief. 

She looked at Sebastien through her eyelashes and when the parson began speaking, Nicolò hid his smile at the changed words.

“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey her, and serve her, love, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Nile raised an eyebrow, mouthing, _obey?_ , and Sebastien met her gaze with good humour. “I will,” he said.

“And wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

Their hands were clasped tightly together through the rest of the ceremony and, when the parson said they should kiss, it was with almost no hesitation, Sebastien’s arm sweeping around her waist, their clasped right hands coming up between them.

He revised his earlier judgement, and smiled. Perhaps Nile would know love, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally adding the book of nile tag ALTHOUGH IT IS V V BACKGROUND i am 90% considering a book of nile write of this after kinktober? i just have sort of fallen in love with them because you 1000% know he _worships_ her and ugh it's just great.
> 
> [here's an example of a regency wedding ceremony](https://pemberley.com/janeinfo/compraym.html) \- i only took the bit of the vows i wanted and skipped the rest and i can't find proof they kissed at the end but they do in p&p&z so guess what, they do here too!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr!](http://kyra-bane.tumblr.com) my asks are open for (just about) anything!
> 
> (also going through comments tomorrow, i promise, i see you all and ilu! 🥰)


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf breaks. Copley tells a story.

The afternoon his sister married, Yusuf found himself sitting on a hill. The weather was just beginning to turn, although he and Copley were both down to their shirtsleeves; they had had a productive morning of zombie killing and were rewarding themselves with a break.

Copley was lying back in the grass, his face upturned to the watery sun, eyes closed. Yusuf had found a journal in the past few months and had taken to writing his letters – now almost exclusively addressed to Nicolò – within its pages. The words were interspersed with sketches; last week, on the first anniversary of his death, Yusuf had woken in the middle of the night and drawn Nicolò’s face by moonlight, paying the most attention to his sad, heavy-lidded eyes.

Nicolò still grieved him and it was as though someone had put a vice around Yusuf’s heart. He and Copley still found untold numbers of zombies every day and they had yet to scour the entire city. If he could not return until all the zombies here were gone, then Nicolò might be sad for an exceptionally long time.

Yusuf huffed out a laugh at that. When had he become so vain?

 _Since the moment Nicolò first laid eyes on you,_ the voice in his head that sounded like Nile replied. 

Beside him, Copley stirred. “Everything alright?” 

“Hmm? Fine, fine.” Yusuf turned back to his letter. 

_I miss you,_ he had written, because it was true, even if the words did not do the feeling justice. _Twahachtek,_ scribbled next, the Arabic letters smooth and practised, was better but still not enough. 

He debated writing non posso vivere senza di te, decided that was perhaps more dramatic than necessary – not to mention, evidently untrue – and settled for a final few lines.

_ Mi manchi. _

_ Per sempre tua, _

_Yusuf._

He closed the book once the ink was dry, resting back on his elbows. Copley shifted again. “Finished already? You usually spend much more time on your craft than that.”

Yusuf shook his head, closed his eyes. “There is not much to write, today.”

When they had first chosen somewhere to sit, he had thought he would write about the zombies they had faced, the children he had trained in the early hours of the morning. He had pages and pages of similar stories, always with a different twist, of course, but he thought Nicolò might like to hear about things such as those. His small triumphs, to chip away at the sorrow that had built up in both of them.

Then he had settled in, had remembered the dream of a man huddled in bed, not wanting to face the outside world and he had written, simply, everything he wanted to say. 

He missed Nicolò terribly and it made no sense but, during the past year, it was one thing he had thought not to question. 

“Who do you write to?” Copley asked gently. He was a clever man. Yusuf had told him of Nile – without revealing that she was like him, naturally. He had told Copley of Longbourn and his family, of facing zombies in the Hertfordshire countryside, even of his childhood in Tunis.

He had not so much as mentioned Nicolò. Had wanted to keep him safe, secret, close to his own heart.

Yusuf knew that he and Copley shared a similar pain.

“Nicolò,” he said and hoped Copley heard the weight behind it.

Copley hummed as though he understood. “Your…”

“I am not quite sure.”

“But you are in love with him?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. He had not stumbled on the truth of it since he had reached for Nicolò, that day in the In Between. He loved Nicolò, it was an immutable fact, and he remembered Nicolò saying, _“Ti amo, Yusuf.”_ Tears pricked at his eyes.

“You are married?” 

“No.” Yusuf opened his eyes again, turning his head to look at Copley, who looked steadily back. “He proposed. I said no.”

“Why?”

Yusuf laughed. Where to begin! He started with the dance at the assembly hall – Nicolò’s insult, his retort – and as he told the story, weaving the threads of their love so far into the beginnings of a tapestry, he sat up, leant in – and Copley moved back, lifted his hand as though he were shielding his eyes from the sun. 

“He destroyed me,” Yusuf said, after telling of his zombie bite, their very first kiss. 

Copley was not looking at him and when Yusuf looked at his friend, he was surprised to see tear tracks on his face. He was looking out at the landscape before them and Yusuf did not know how long he had been crying.

He had not seen Copley cry. Not in a year, not even with all they had been doing.

“Do you hate him for it?” he asked and his voice was edged with unfathomable pain.

“I begged him to do it,” Yusuf said and then, when Copley squeezed his eyes tight, more tears spilling over, Yusuf grasped his arm.

“He honoured me by doing it, James. It was my dying wish and he fulfilled it. How could I ask for more from him than that?”

Copley put his hands over his face, shoulders shaking as he sobbed and Yusuf moved closer but did not put an arm around him. He felt it would not be appreciated.

Eventually, Copley’s sobs subsided. He wiped his face, sat up. He would not meet Yusuf’s eyes.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” Yusuf asked and watched as every muscle in Copley’s body tensed.

“I– I _should…”_

“Not if you are not ready.”

Copley was already shaking his head. “No, I – she, I loved her and she–”

Tears were forming again and now Yusuf did reach out, his hand landing heavy on Copley’s forearm. “When you are ready,” he said slowly, ever so clearly, and Copley nodded.

They left the park not long after that.

***

That night, Yusuf dreamt of Nile. The dreams were sometimes coherent, a flow of narrative, almost, following whichever person that immortal part of him had chosen. He had seen Sebastien, the day his tailor came by and fitted him for his bridegroom suit. He had seen Andromache ride away from Netherfield, out into battle, and back again.

He savoured it, when he had the chance to follow Nicolò; he still woke with a start but it soothed his soul and he often saw Leyla, too, even if only for a moment.

And as much as he loved Nicolò – a feeling that seemed to only grow in intensity after every dream – those dreams did not compare to when he saw Nile.

When he saw Nile, he saw his _family._

He saw baba, his dark hair shot through with a little more grey, still fussing over the account books; though now, Eli appeared to be helping, channelling all his seriousness into this one problem he could solve.

He saw Nile’s mother, fussing over her more and more as the wedding date drew near. He saw Karima, slipping out of Longbourn to go for a walk with a young man from Meryton. He saw Leyla – when she was not with Nicolò – still cheerful and lively as ever, but she tempered herself now, more often.

He saw they all carried their swords, at all times.

Tonight, the dream was not one of the long, slow ones. Instead, it was a series of flashes from the day: Nile’s wedding day, he realised, and he saw her dress, the way it shone in the morning light, saw fingers deftly threading flowers through her braids, saw Nicolò sitting across from her, pain twisting his face, saw baba take her arm, his eyes shining, as he led her to Sebastien – and their vows, Sebastien was looking at her like she had hung the stars, had she noticed that? 

He saw the wedding meal, heard shouted congratulations, and Nile’s mother was crying, smiling, as Nile and Sebastien climbed into the carriage that would take them on their honeymoon and then–

Then, Yusuf woke up.

He gasped in a breath as though he had just died, hands turning to fists in the sheets, and a wave of grief suddenly broke over him because he should have _been there_ and he was not.

He threw back the sheets before he could make a noise – Copley was still sleeping in the bed across the room – and grabbed his saif before he left the house, stepping out into the frigid night air.

Yusuf dragged in one trembling breath, then another. He wanted to scream, suddenly, to protest the unfairness of it all, to ask the one question that had dogged him every minute, every _second_ since he had woken here–

_Why had they not come for him?_

He could not believe that he could be subjected to this every night and they were not. Allah could not be so _cruel;_ Yusuf had committed his share of sin but all the good he had done, had tried to do – did they not even out, in the end?

For Nile not to come, for Nicolò– then they were not dreaming of him, surely, because he could not believe that they would leave him here to die over and over, to attempt a task he would surely never complete and if he did not complete it then he could not ever go home…

He became distantly aware that there was an arm around his shoulders, that his face was pressed into someone’s chest and Copley was murmuring but at first, Yusuf could not make out the words.

“Breathe, Joseph, breathe,” he heard, in Arabic, because Copley had asked to learn, and he let out one final, heart-wrenching sob before he fell silent.

When he was aware of anything again, they were back in the house, in the kitchen. Copley was boiling water on the stove and Yusuf had a blanket tucked tight around his shoulders.

He was shaking, shivering, and he could feel the cold down to his very bones.

Copley put a steaming mug in front of him. Coffee, by the smell, and Yusuf wrapped his hands around it. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. His voice came out hoarse.

They drank in silence and Yusuf waited, on edge, for Copley to ask what had happened.

“My wife died not long before London fell,” he said instead and Yusuf could only stare at him. “I had loved her all my life. Before I knew what love was, certainly. My mother worked in her house as a cook, my father as the coachman. If they had not worked there, I would never have known her.”

He smiled ruefully and he was not looking at Yusuf; rather, he stared down into the depths of his cup. “She loved me too. Told me, when we were teens – God, we were not much more than children. But she was always intended to marry someone else.”

Yusuf swallowed. “What happened?”

“She married him,” Copley said. “She married him and they moved to Derbyshire, where he had a wonderful estate, and I knew I was unlikely to love any woman the way I had loved her so, I confess, I did not even try. I did my best to rise above my station, if only so I could help the people in my community – and I trained, too, tried to ensure I could be useful protection.”

“But you married her?”

Copley nodded. “There was an attack. Zombies overran Pemberley and her husband was killed. She survived and her parents brought her back to London.”

He took a deep breath and then another. “She came to me the next night. Said she would regret it if she never saw me again.” His eyes swam with tears. “She asked me to marry her. I knew there was something– something wrong, but I did not wish to question her, for fear that she might disappear and I would never see her again. So, I said yes.

“We married in a chapel the next day – it was easy enough to find a parson who did not mind that we had not announced the banns, that we were clearly doing something illicit. London is – was – a large city and with money in the right hands, no one asked questions. We married and I kissed her for the first time and then I brought her back to my little house.”

Yusuf had a sick feeling in his stomach; like he knew, already, where the story was going. Copley drank the rest of his coffee before he spoke again.

“She showed me the bite mark only after I had locked the door. She was feeling the effects, she said, but could not trust her family to do what they must. And she told me–” His breathing hitched, but he continued, “She told me she had never lied; she wanted to marry me before she died. Well, she said she was already dead – and that meant she could do anything she wanted and she had chosen me.”

“What did you do?” Yusuf asked.

“We slept,” Copley said, and laughed to himself. “When we woke, she was a little more distant, more distractable. We were married a week before I took her out of the city. Before I killed her.”

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf said. It was inadequate; no sentiment could possibly be enough because although Yusuf had destroyed Nile and been destroyed by Nicolò in turn, they were all still alive. Still hearty. Still whole.

Copley smiled but it did not meet his eyes. “It is the first time I have told the whole story aloud. I am glad I could tell it to you, Joseph.” 

He appeared almost lighter, somehow, as though some weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Yusuf, in contrast, felt that he was slowly being dragged down into a deep, dark ocean, from which there would be no escape.

“You will get out of here,” Copley said. “No matter how long it takes, I believe you will. And you will find Nicolò and Nile and whoever else is out there like you and you will recover. You will.”

Yusuf stared at him. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That Nile and Nicolò are…?” _Like me,_ he wanted to say but he did not wish to confirm anything.

Copley smiled and, this time, it was genuine. “You write them letters. You would not write them if you did not expect to deliver the words, some day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all this one got sad 😭😭😭 but we're getting closer to happiness, i promise! 
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr!](http://kyra-bane.tumblr.com)


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò, Nile, Andromache, and Sebastien leave England. Nicolò and Leyla exchange letters.

On the fifth anniversary of Yusuf’s death, Nicolò found himself on a ship bound for France. It was not to be a long or arduous journey and he looked forward to their arrival on land again; the ocean made he and Andromache especially uneasy. 

Sebastien and Nile did not appear to have noticed the way Andromache had taken to pacing the deck like a jaguar, muscles tensed, ready for a fight. Nile did not appear to have noticed much of anything, as it happened; she was staring out at the land they were leaving behind. Sebastien sat by her side, watching her, a silent, stable presence.

Nicolò had put on an affected air; he did not wish for anyone to approach him and so he cast an alert but dismissive-seeming eye over the deck. They had a private cabin, of course, but had all silently agreed to remain above board, among other people.

After an hour or so, once England had vanished in the distance, Sebastien came and sat heavily beside him.

“How is she?” Nicolò asked.

“Sad,” Sebastien said. He rested his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward until he was looking up at Nicolò. “Which is to be expected.”

Nicolò hummed his own agreement. He had dreamt of Yusuf last night and had woken early, full of the anxious energy he always exuded before they left anywhere.

Leyla had married the month before. Nile had told Nicolò that his promise to Yusuf had been fulfilled; he had no responsibility for her siblings, now that they were all married, all starting their own families. 

Leyla had told him that did not mean he would be rid of her; she had, instead, made his promise to write her every month a wedding gift to her – although Nicolò had also gifted her a new sword he had commissioned, partly because he thought she needed one and partly because her now-husband, a lovely gentleman, had never wielded a weapon in his life.

She had vowed to protect him and he had vowed to cherish her and Nicolò had insisted that they wait until her return from her honeymoon before leaving. Andromache had agreed – it gave them more than enough time to board up Netherfield, to convince Nile’s parents that Sebastien had to return to see his own family.

Yusuf’s death day always made Nile sad, but compounded with leaving her family… Nicolò thought she was bearing it better than he ever could have.

“Have you told her yet?” he asked Sebastien, who shook his head.

“I cannot tell her today. She has enough to… She would not want me to.”

“But you plan to?”

Sebastien did not answer. 

Nicolò had thought that Sebastien and Nile might discover their feelings for one another during their honeymoon but they had returned as firm friends and, even when Andromache had asked, Sebastien had insisted that friends was all they were. They were married in name alone.

Except, they clearly were not. Where Andromache would ride off to battle zombies God-knew-where, and Nicolò would watch over the Al-Kaysanis, stalk the countryside, Nile and Sebastien spent the vast majority of their time together. 

Nicolò was beginning to get the feeling she wanted more and yet it always seemed to be Sebastien who was hesitant; whether because of her age, her newness to their way of life, he was not sure.

He did not believe, for a second, that Sebastien was not attracted to her. That was obvious to anyone with eyes.

“Sebastien,” Nicolò said. “You told me you are in love with her.”

“I said I thought I was in love with her.”

“And now?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. He was staring at her again; she had her eyes closed, face turned up toward the sky. When a particularly rough wave hit the boat, she did not even flinch.

“I do not think it is the right time,” Sebastien said quietly and there was such guilt on his face, guilt that Nicolò did not understand. 

“Do you think she would reject you?”

“Yes,” Sebastien said, and he still was not looking at Nicolò. 

Nicolò sighed. It was not his place to interfere and it was not as though they were about to run out of time. Were they missing out on years together? Of course. But they had more than enough time ahead of them.

“Alright,” he said. “But I do think you should tell her. She may just surprise you.”

As if she heard him, Nile opened her eyes, clearly casting about for her ever-present companion. When her gaze finally settled on Sebastien, she smiled.

It was the first smile she had worn all day. A small, tired thing, but a smile all the same.

Sebastien clapped Nicolò on the shoulder and returned to his wife. Nicolò went back to watching Andromache pace, her skin decidedly pale. They would arrive soon.

***

_Dearest Nicolò,_

_The way you describe France makes it sound truly dreadful. I should hate to visit and yet Alexandre says that I am merely unrefined. I told him that he could always find himself a refined Parisian to marry and he returned that evening with a hunting dog._

_A peace offering, I think; he does not understand that sometimes I simply enjoy arguing._

_She is an adorable puppy. I have named her Apolline because I believe she is as fierce as your Andromache. She certainly believes she can face any danger; she argued with a flock of geese yesterday and tripped over her own paws running away!_

_I hope you remain safe. I told Nile to write me but I know she will not – or she will do so infrequently; she has always been terrible at correspondence – so you are the one who will have to put up with me, instead. Hertfordshire has been quiet of late. Some of the other ladies and I have begun organising hunting trips further north. There are entire towns that have been left to their own devices and so we do what we can. Before you can chastise me, I am careful. I know my limits._

_Six months is a long time. I miss all of you. Give everyone my love._

_Yours,_

_Leyla._

***

_Leyla,_

_We arrived in Wallachia yesterday. Dogs everywhere – Apolline would be pleased. They have done as well as they can here, dealing with the zombie menace, and so we hope to rest a while. It has been a long year._

_Nile has sent you a parcel, I believe, although I am unsure whether it will arrive before my letter. Most things within are from her. The throwing knives are from Andromache. She bid me remind you that you should not be getting too close; I reassured her that you are well aware, but she does fret, sometimes._

_We received the letter from Karima, too; thank you for that. Twins! That will certainly be a handful but I am certain she is up to the task. Sadly, Sebastien was maudlin for almost a week after the news – as he ever is, when it comes to children. Some wounds do not heal, but eventually Nile had him out of the bottle and back on the battlefield._

_I am not certain why they dance around each other the way they do, but there is nothing, apparently, that I can say to change that. Sebastien confesses his feelings to me every time he drinks more than a couple of fingers of whiskey and yet he does not dare say anything to her._

_I fear she may, at some point, run him through just so that she will get a chance to say the words first. If there is anything I can do to help speed this process along, I would appreciate your advice._

_Your friend,_

_Nicolò._

***

_Dearest Nicolò,_

_You already received the news, I trust? Little Joseph arrived two weeks ago; a month early, the midwife said, but I am ever healthy and so is he._

_Alexandre could not stop crying, the first time he held his son. He has his father’s tawny eyes, which I fear may get him into some trouble when he ages, but there will be time to worry about that later. He has Yusuf’s hair, all those unruly curls._

_How has it been more than two years since we last saw each other in person? I know you would love to meet him. I want him to meet you. Not now, not yet – but eventually. When he is old enough to appreciate who you are. Eli is going to be his godfather but, if you were here, I would of course ask._

_I hope to get back to hunting by the spring, although Alexandre keeps insisting I rest. He is not wrong but also, he has promised to take care of Joseph once I am well enough to fight. He is coming on in his practice, too! I believe the last couple of months have made it rather clear to him that I cannot be the only one to protect us, not if we have the second child he already wants._

_Although he can wait for that, too. One is enough for now!_

_Yours,_

_Leyla._

***

_Leyla,_

_You made me promise not to lie when I wrote to you. Today has been a terrible day._

_Sebastien is drinking somewhere, I think, though he may just be following Nile around. Andromache is storming around the villa. Did I tell you we are in Italy? I believe we will be here for a while._

_The country has been overrun. I do not know how, bad luck, perhaps. In England, this was all easier – here, the zombies come from every direction, and we are vastly outnumbered._

_We all died today._

_More than once each, I believe, although I must confess to losing track of Nile for a time, of Sebastien and Andromache, too. We beat back the horde; the soldiers left have been searching the hills for them, but they will be back and in greater numbers._

_Every so often, I am reminded of Mrs Featherstone, of Merrick. We cannot tell if these zombies are being led – and I do not believe that they are, in truth, but the fear is still there. Should that happen, should the zombies band together and start to think, then humanity will be lost._

_I am sorry for the maudlin letter. I hope you and Alexandre and Joseph are well. Please, if you wish to bring me comfort, tell me stories of them. I am enclosing this with a present for Joseph’s second birthday, too; I know it is soon and this will probably take a few months to reach you, but I do hope he will like it, all the same._

_I dreamt of Yusuf again. Dreams of him remind me of the days we face, here; endless zombies, an endless fight, and I am sorry, too, that even in my dreams he does not escape this fate. I will not ever forget him but I had hoped that, eventually, his loss would not hurt so sharply._

_ Ti voglio bene. _

_Nicolò._

***

_Dearest Nicolò,_

_All is well here. Joseph is well; he talks non-stop now, in French or English, and Alexandre says it is my influence – as though he never goes on impassioned speeches about anything. Amir is growing, too; six months old and I admit I already see a lot of myself in him. Hopefully, he will be less of a handful than I was as a girl!_

_In a month, it will have been ten years since we lost Yusuf. I cannot do much more than repeat the same thing I tell you every year: I hope you have forgiven yourself. You know he would never have blamed you in the first place; if he thought you needed forgiveness, he would have offered it to you in the first instance._

_I know he is not here and I hope you can believe me in his stead._

_They have been rebuilding Hingham Bridge these past few months. Only a handful of zombies have stumbled over its edge since the turn of the year and it is doubtful there is anyone alive in London, but still, the regiments are going in to be sure. Whenever you come back to see Alexandre and I, to meet our boys, I hope you will take me out there, to his final resting place. I understand, of course, if you do not wish to; but I would think Nile would appreciate that, too._

_Keep yourself safe and do let me know how Nile and Sebastien are getting on. I really thought he would have told her by now and her letters are arriving with increasing frequency – a sign of her growing frustration. What was it, you suggested once? That she run him through and then tell him how she feels? That day may not be far off._

_Give Andromache my love and tell her Apolline took down three zombies on her own just last week. She is doing her best to live up to her namesake!_

_All my love,_

_Leyla._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what's coming 😏😏😏 (maybe not as soon as you think but YES STILL SOON)


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf and Copley tie up a loose end. Soldiers arrive in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought it might be prudent to add a couple of tws for this chapter - **they are in the end notes!**

“I am certain I can find something better.”

Yusuf looked over at Copley with a smile. They were strolling down one of London’s streets and Copley had a bottle of wine in his right hand. Unopened, still; but Copley had been waxing poetic about expensive gin, good French brandy. He was certain they would find some; he had insisted on looking ever since Yusuf had said that he wanted to _celebrate_ tonight, ten years in this abandoned city with only their wits and each other to sustain them.

He already knew he would not drink. He had tried alcohol before, once, in a bout of teenage curiosity but he felt no desire to do so now, especially when there was no guarantee he could get drunk – let alone, drunk enough to forget.

Copley let himself into another townhouse and Yusuf followed him amenably, though he stopped to watch his friend ascend the steps first. Ten years they had known each other and Copley had, of course, aged during that time; he was still fast enough, for sure, and even more skilled with his blade than when they had first met.

Still, there were fine lines at the edges of his eyes when he smiled, which was more often in the past few years.

Yusuf had not aged a day. Instead, he had grown a beard, finally shucking off the English tradition of keeping his face clean-shaven. It had the added benefit of hiding the lack of change in his features, as well as, in Copley’s words, making him look quite dashing.

“Found some!” Copley shouted from the kitchen. Yusuf stepped over a broken chair on his way through. Whoever had lived here had been attacked, it seemed like; even now, blood stained the walls, though it had gone brown with age. If London ever was entered again, it would take a lot of work to get it back to its former glory.

Copley was wielding a bottle of brandy when Yusuf approached. Sealed, still, by the looks of it, which had Yusuf feeling better about the whole thing. Alcohol did not go bad, Copley had insisted, but Yusuf did not trust that.

“Let us go back, then,” he said. “I would like to eat before it goes dark.”

They wound back through the streets, encountering only a couple of stray zombies, which Yusuf took care of so that Copley would lose neither his wine nor his brandy. He left the corpses where they lay; Copley would undoubtedly be late to rouse, come morning, so he could come and clean up alone.

Once back at their house, warm and inviting as it was, now, Copley set the bottles down in the kitchen and Yusuf set to lighting the stove. He still had to feed the small flock of chickens they kept out back but when he heard a knock at the door, he frowned.

Copley was already on his feet, sword in hand. “Who is it?” he called and Yusuf set his hand on the hilt of his saif.

“Mr Copley, it’s me, Miss Lucas.”

Copley set to opening the door but Yusuf frowned. Something about her voice sounded different. Nervous, almost, which she had not been with either of them in years.

She stepped inside, a basket hooked over her left arm. Miss Lucas wore a sword now, too, as most of them staying with or near Keane did after Yusuf’s insistence. They had lost many of the survivors that first year and it had only been a concerted effort on his and Copley’s part with regards to training and sourcing weapons that had seen them through a second winter.

“Joseph,” she said, nodding her head. He had never provided them a surname; no one had asked since Keane. 

“Miss Lucas. Are you well?”

She met his eyes before her gaze darted away. “I am fine. I thought I might offer to cook you both dinner. Mr Copley told me last week you were planning a celebration of sorts, so I…” She trailed off, eventually adding, “So I thought it might be nice.”

“It would be wonderful,” Copley said and Yusuf nodded his agreement. 

Miss Lucas set the basket on the side and, when it moved, Yusuf stepped back in surprise. Copley laughed.

“What is in there?” Yusuf asked.

“Oh! One of the boys caught some rabbits last week. I did not wish to presume you had anything, so…” 

She looked meaningfully at Yusuf, who nodded. It would be quick enough work to kill the animal and prepare it, and he appreciated the gesture. Copley had been the one who had developed their tentative friendship with Miss Lucas who, as it turned out, shared his covetousness for books. Still, she had eyed the Quran Yusuf had found in a deserted manor for weeks before building up the courage to ask if she could borrow it. 

She had returned it to him two weeks later and then, somehow, had drawn him into a long conversation about the similarities between their two faiths. Yusuf had not realised she was devout until then, but that conversation, and then her weekly visit to eat with them, had helped him make it through some of the more difficult years.

He took the rabbit out back, away from the chickens, said “Bismillah,” and then cut its throat. Whatever Miss Lucas made of it, it would do for their lunch tomorrow, as well, which saved another meal. 

When he took the meat back inside, everything else buried so as not to attract zombies or any other scavenging animals, Miss Lucas and Copley were engaged in a quiet conversation.

“It is ready,” Yusuf said and Miss Lucas startled, looking surprisingly guilty.

She was tugging down her sleeve.

Yusuf put the meat on the counter and washed off his hands before he turned to her and Copley.

“Forgive me but it does seem as though something may be amiss.”

“Tell him,” Copley said and his tone brooked no room for argument.

“I made Mr Copley promise not to say anything,” Miss Lucas said. She had her right hand wrapped around her left wrist, the arm she had just shown to Copley.

“Show me,” Yusuf said because he had a darkly sick feeling in his stomach but one that he imagined would be simple to rectify.

She lifted her sleeve again. A perfectly hand-shaped bruise wrapped around her forearm, purple and red and painful looking. Yusuf sucked in a breath.

“It is really not all that terrible,” she said. “It has just been, recently, things have got more out of hand.”

“Who was it?” Yusuf asked. He knew it could only be one person.

Miss Lucas shook her head and took a seat. “It was easier when there were more of us,” she said. “He would go after the children but they were quick to hide and alcohol usually dulled him when he got like that. Some of the older men, the ones who could not fight; they would distract him, too. It was a rare occurrence, anyway; I think he took more of it out on the zombies than people.”

“And now?”

“Now, there are not enough zombies to keep him away for more than a few hours at a time. And he knows he is becoming slower; he takes no one with him and so if he ever is caught out, he will be alone. He’s worried about the boys – most of them are grown now and although a few believe in him, follow him, eventually they will outgrow him.”

She looked up at Yusuf. “He worries about _you,_ too. When he drinks, you are all he talks about. He thinks you are a zombie, says that no man could kill that many and not be taken down. He says you do not age.”

Her eyes searched his face and Yusuf simply looked back. He was not a zombie – and that was something he could prove. After a moment, she sighed and looked down at the bruise.

“He was angry tonight because I was coming here. Because I told him. I did not realise things had become that bad or I might have had my wits about me enough to use my sword. Instead, I–” She sniffled, wiped at her eyes and when she looked up at them again, she seemed almost as composed as ever.

“It was Keane, wasn’t it?” Yusuf asked. 

Miss Lucas nodded. Yusuf looked over at Copley. “Why would you not tell me?” 

“I promised. Besides, from what I have seen of Keane – I knew he was volatile but not to this extent.”

Yusuf rested his weight back against the counter behind him. “So, what are we going to do about this?”

Miss Lucas lifted her head, startled, and Copley smiled. “I thought you would never ask.”

***

Copley let himself into the survivors’ house. There were few children around, nowadays, but the ones present eyed him warily. A teenage boy was sharpening a dagger in the kitchen and grunted when Copley passed him.

He had a black eye and wore a sullen expression.

“He’s on his throne in there,” he said quietly when Copley paused to look at him. 

“Thank you.”

Keane was precisely where the boy had said, staring into the flames that flickered in the fireplace. There was no one else in the sitting room – a marked different to every time Copley had visited before; the ones who could not fight tended to remain in here, working on something or other for the house, for their community.

He fought the sudden urge to shiver; it was as though they knew he brought death with him tonight.

“Keane,” he said and then, when the man did not reply, a little louder, “Keane.”

Keane started, lifting his sword. His shoulders relaxed when he saw Copley standing there.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have news. Of Joseph.”

Keane’s eyes narrowed. “What news?”

Copley smiled, coming closer, leaning in conspiratorially. “He wished to celebrate tonight,” he said, “And, once drunk enough, revealed everything. Did you know zombies can get drunk? I did not until a few hours ago.”

“You expect me to believe you have been living with the man for the last decade and you have never noticed he is a zombie?”

“He is clever. And why would I ever check? But if you would like to, you can. I can take you to him. He is almost delirious with it; if you do need to destroy him, it will be easy.”

Keane got to his feet, lurching forward a little, and never mind the imaginary drunk Joseph; Copley could smell the alcohol on Keane’s breath from several feet away.

“Take me to him,” Keane said, and so Copley did.

Keane seemed to sober up somewhat on the walk; the air was crisp and there were still enough zombies in the city that a howl a few streets away startled both of them. He had told Joseph Hyde Park and he only hoped he would be up to playing his part.

The moon was bright and heavy, and Copley made out Joseph’s shape on one of the park benches. He had the bottle of wine Copley had found earlier in his left hand, and where some had spilt onto the floor, it looked like blood.

Copley could not see Joseph’s saif, but he could hear the teenager from the house not far behind him. Good. They needed a witness to this.

“Look at the state of you,” Keane hissed, towering over Joseph. Joseph, who had his eyes half-closed, a peaceful smile on his lips.

“Copley! Keane!” he said, managed to slur, and Copley knew this had been a risky plan but with Keane two sheets to the wind, they just about had a chance. 

Keane hauled Joseph up by his shirt and Joseph dropped the bottle. It smashed and Copley reached for Keane. “We’ll attract zombies at this rate. Hurry up!”

“I know what you are,” Keane said, so close to Joseph’s face and Joseph’s lips were still quirked, gaze distant as if he did not know what was going on. “And you are going to tell me your secrets. How are you a zombie that can pretend to be human? I have never seen anything like you before.”

Joseph giggled – actually giggled – and Copley reached, with his left hand, for the dagger he had tucked into his waistband. They had to be careful. Copley had seen Keane fight and although he was certain they both could win against him, he was astutely aware of the boy watching from behind a tree.

“What are you laughing at?” Keane growled and Joseph’s whole demeanour changed. 

“You,” he said, swinging a fist at Keane’s head. 

The blow glanced off Keane’s temple and he stumbled back; Copley grabbed him, put the dagger to his throat.

Keane froze. He recognised a threat, then – good. “What? Copley, what is this?”

“We heard some terrible smears against your reputation today, Keane,” Joseph said and his eyes were blazing, full of the anger that overcame him sometimes, when he realised someone had done a terrible wrong. 

Keane had done wrong – had _been_ wrong, for all of them, for a long time. They should have dealt with him before now but they had not known the extent of his cruelty; and besides, Copley had been doing his best to keep he and Joseph apart, for fear that Keane would confirm any of his theories about Joseph and attempt to act on them.

Like tonight, for example.

“What have you heard?” Keane snarled. He was a cornered beast, trapped between two predators and Copley did not feel a lick of sympathy.

“When you cannot kill zombies, you like to hurt children. Women. I think, actually, you would like to hurt _anyone_ but you go for an easy target.”

Keane did not deny it; he could not. Instead, he smirked. “What are you, then? A zombie that protects men? You think they will not kill you all the same, when they find out what you are? I am not the only one who has noticed you do not age, Joseph. Where they used to marvel at the number of zombies you kill, the fact that you are still alive, they will come to fear you.”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “How do they explain Copley, then? Or how does that explain _me?_ What, do you think I am some kind of immortal being, who throws himself between zombies and the people they are trying to kill?”

Copley looked up at the sky. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh.

Keane had no answer to that. For a long moment, he and Joseph stared at each other.

“You will never stop, will you?” Joseph said finally, quietly.

Keane struggled for a second, just one, and Copley held him still again. He would not. Copley knew that; he had seen enough men who liked to _hurt_ and the more he and Joseph fought the zombies back, the more Keane would have to take that urge out on everyone and anyone around him.

“Why should I?” Keane shouted, all but screamed, and Copley saw the boy duck back behind a tree out of the corner of his eye. “They are all _weak;_ why should I stop?”

Joseph sighed. He bent down, retrieving his saif from the shadows under the bench. “We cannot risk losing each other,” he said. “Not when we are all we have to rely on.”

His saif was sharp; the movement was quick, painless. Copley let Keane’s body go, stepping back as blood spread across the path.

Joseph ran a hand through his curls. “Was that the right thing to do?”

“Yes,” Copley replied because he had been going over it in his head for weeks; had been considering if he could sneak into the house in the night and kill Keane in his sleep, ever since Miss Lucas had revealed what had been happening for the first time. He hated that he had not known – they had separated themselves, and for good reason, but he could not help feeling that he had failed.

“Get over here,” Copley called to the boy, who hesitated before he did. He slowed as he approached, staring down at Keane’s headless corpse. He did not appear to be upset.

“You killed him,” he said after a moment, looking between Copley and Joseph. 

“Yes,” Copley said. “Miss Lucas told us what he was doing to all of you.”

“Mostly to her,” the boy replied. “She always made sure she was in the way.” 

Copley closed his eyes and when he opened them, Joseph had a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We will tell them the truth of it,” he said. “They deserve to know. But we cannot fight among ourselves – we need each other to survive.” 

The teenager nodded. “I know.” He reached up and pressed the tender skin around his eye, then dropped his hand again. “He did think you were a zombie, sir. He told us all so.”

Joseph smiled; it was bright, and disarming, and Copley watched the way the teenager warmed to him. “I am most definitely not a zombie,” he said. “Allah has merely blessed me with a youthful complexion. Hopefully the same will happen for you.”

The boy snorted and Copley rolled his eyes, out of sight. “Go back to the house, now,” he said. “We will send Miss Lucas on her way, later.” 

Once they were alone, Joseph sheathed his saif. “You ruined my shirt, you know.”

Copley snorted. “Well, you weren’t going to _drink_ the wine, we had to sell it a little.”

“Good job you found the brandy. I do believe you’ve earned a drink.” 

He walked over and picked up Keane’s head. They still had to burn the body; it would not do to attract zombies back to the park. It had been empty for a year or more and Joseph was determined to not accidently have another horde nearby. 

They made quick work of the task, lighting a pyre where they had lit one before, charred grass marking the spot. Once Keane’s remains were alight, Joseph rocked back on his heels.

“What I am about to say is terribly insensitive and ghastly but… I am hungry,” he confessed.

Copley bit his lip to stop himself laughing. He supposed you were supposed to feel something when you killed someone, but they had spent so long killing zombies that had done no more than obey their base nature that killing a man who was truly terrible felt like less of a transgression, in comparison.

“So am I,” he said, finally, and they walked back to the house, to eat fresh-cooked rabbit and let Miss Lucas know she was now safe.

***

A few weeks later, Yusuf woke to an unfamiliar sound. It was still mostly dark out and the bed across from him was empty, but when he realised he _recognised_ the noise, he leapt from his bed, almost forgetting his saif in his haste.

Copley was already out in the courtyard, ducked half behind the gate, and he beckoned Yusuf over.

“Soldiers,” he hissed and Yusuf grabbed his arm. Was this a dream? No, he had dreamt of Nicolò in Italy, fighting; no soldiers in red coats there. 

And he could see them! They were a street away – he had heard their horses – all with weapons at the ready as they rode and walked through.

“We have to go to the house,” Copley said. “We cannot guarantee they will be met peacefully, there.” 

Yusuf nodded, understanding dawning on him. The soldiers would likely believe they were all zombies; if Yusuf had not been here, he would certainly have not thought there would be survivors after ten years. He slipped back into the house and dressed properly and then he and Copley were off, sneaking through the cobbled streets, taking all the twisting turns that Yusuf had spent a decade getting used to.

He tried his best to repress his sudden excitement, his nerves; but the presence of soldiers meant only one thing: a bridge had been repaired. Ya Allah, he hoped Nicolò was dreaming of him, for one precious moment, so that he could _feel_ this, this anticipation of getting out of this city, going home.

Yusuf pushed that thought aside. _Later,_ he told himself. For now, they had to focus on not being seen – after all, his was less an issue of being killed for being a zombie and more of being captured and taken away once he came back.

Copley reached the door first, rapping on it quickly and, once they were inside, Yusuf made sure it was shut securely behind them. Everything seemed so different to how Copley had described it when he had told Yusuf of luring Keane out. It was brighter, cleaner; the children still eyed them both warily, but they were not running from the room, so Yusuf took that as an improvement.

Miss Lucas came into the room. She was de facto in charge now, although that appeared to primarily mean that she came to exchange goods with Yusuf and Copley herself, and that she held her head a little higher. Now, looking at them, she frowned.

“What is it?”

“Soldiers,” Copley replied and the whole room went still.

“What do you mean, soldiers?” She crossed through into the other room and Yusuf and Copley followed. The windows were boarded up but she ducked down, peering through a crack in the wood.

When she saw them, she gasped. “Soldiers?”

“They must have repaired one of the bridges. If we wish to leave here, we will have to be careful in our approach.”

She nodded. “The children will remain.” She turned to two teenagers sitting on a small settee. One was the boy who had seen Yusuf and Copley kill Keane; he was dozing, resting his head on the other’s shoulder. “Eddie, Michael! Keep the children together and out of sight. Mr Copley, Joseph, and I will go to meet them.”

Yusuf smiled; he liked this side of her. Copley, on the other hand, appeared surprised. “We will?”

“We will, Mr Copley. Come along.” 

She swept past them and Copley raised an eyebrow but Yusuf merely shrugged. If everything did go wrong, at least he could do his best to get them both away from there. Copley would do his best to protect Miss Lucas, if necessary; and Yusuf could be enough of a distraction.

They made certain the door was locked behind them, everyone quiet within, and Yusuf led them out onto the nearby square. He could hear the horses getting closer and nervous anticipation twisted in his stomach.

“I very much hope they do not kill us,” Copley said and Yusuf could not help himself; he laughed.

The first soldier entered the square and froze. He raised his musket. Yusuf sighed.

“Really?” he muttered, loud enough so that only Miss Lucas and Copley could hear, and raised his hands. 

He very much did not enjoy his saif being just out of reach but he also very much wished to leave London. 

“I have something,” the soldier shouted; he sounded no older than a boy, no older than Eddie and Michael, back in the house, and Yusuf wondered if he had been a child when Hingham Bridge had blown.

More and more soldiers piled into the square and once they were surrounded, Yusuf was afraid they may have made the wrong call. Perhaps he should have gone alone – although getting even Copley to agree that, with his knowledge of what Yusuf was, would have taken more time than they had.

One man, on horseback, separated himself from the pack. Judging by his adornments, he was a colonel, so perhaps the man in charge.

“You do not look like zombies to me,” he said, but he had a sword in his hand and so Yusuf did not move. He was aware of Copley glancing around, too – with any luck they would be able to get Miss Lucas out of there, at least.

“We are not, colonel,” Yusuf replied. 

The colonel leapt from his horse, coming in close and Yusuf did not lower his hands. He did not allow himself to be intimidated, either – was not intimidated, in truth. 

“I take it there are more of you,” the colonel said. “They told me we would find no one, but I was not certain that would be true.”

Yusuf did not answer. He did not look toward the house. He looked nowhere but the colonel’s eyes. “We have not been bitten,” he said, finally, and the colonel smiled.

“Well, I do have good news.” He beckoned and a parson separated himself from the soldiers. “We can check.” 

One of the houses nearby had one of the old contraptions, in a downstairs room, that allowed for a parson to view one’s body and no one else. Out of all of them, Yusuf actually thought Copley looked most uncomfortable at the idea; they all politely turned their backs as Miss Lucas stripped and stepped into the iron box and the parson looked her over for even less time than he spent on the two men.

Yusuf was pulling his shirt over his head when the parson spoke. “They are all clean. Not a bite among them.”

Copley passed Yusuf his saif and he fastened it around his waist. The colonel nodded.

“Very well. Parson, you will remain here with a dozen soldiers. The rest of us will sweep the city.” He looked at Miss Lucas, seeing something, perhaps, in the way she had not cowed before them, not even for a moment. “Bring your survivors. If you are not bitten, you may leave London.”

***

Yusuf and Copley returned to their house before they left. They had promised most of their things to Miss Lucas and the others; Yusuf was not expecting to need much except the money they had picked up from empty houses, his weapons, a change of clothes and the letters beneath his bed. Copley collected a few things, too, and then they stood in the courtyard, staring at it.

“I cannot believe the day has finally come,” Copley said. “I truly did not believe I would live to see it.”

Yusuf was unsure whether he wished to laugh or cry. They were free. _Free._ He could go anywhere, do anything – although he was torn, at this moment, between a desperate choice.

“What are you going to do?” he asked Copley, who shrugged.

“I was born in this city. I grew up in it. All my family and friends from before… they are dead or gone. If you would have me, I would come with you.” 

Yusuf smiled and clapped a hand on Copley’s shoulder, a plan forming in his mind. “Alright. Come along, then. We will see if we can bargain those soldiers for some horses. I do not wish to walk all the way to Hertfordshire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: yusuf slaughters a rabbit for his, copley, and miss lucas' dinner (not overly graphic, but if you want to skip, stop at 'He took the rabbit out back...' and return at 'When he took the meat back inside...')
> 
> miss lucas mentions abuse from keane towards her and the children in the house. not graphic but this is an important part of keane's role in this chapter; the bulk of it is from '"Tell him," Copley said...' to '"It was Keane, wasn't it?"'
> 
> also we're getting closerrrrrr and i definitely didn't add even more notes to my outline todayyyy (outlook is bleak for booker/andy but the chances of me writing a sequel (???) are increasing (???) somehow (???) )


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copley visits Longbourn. Leyla discovers a secret.

They arrived in Meryton that evening. Two of the soldiers had been more than willing to offer up their horses – so long as they were returned to the regiment there – for a handful of coins. Yusuf had paid them without complaint; he did not much like the prospect of the day’s walk back to Hingham Bridge, never mind getting to Hertfordshire after that.

After taking care of the horses – the soldiers eyed them fearfully, but neither he nor Copley paid them mind – Yusuf led Copley to a lodgings house he was pleased to see was still standing. 

“You wash up first,” Copley said. He had been quiet on their ride through the county, and Yusuf thought he understood what his friend was thinking. It was so _different_ out here, especially once they had arrived in Meryton. 

People were simply… walking around. Plenty of them were armed, for sure, but they smiled so easily and Yusuf had not realised the expressions he had seen around him every day for the last ten years were so drawn, so haunted. 

He washed quickly and, for once, thought he might stay clean for longer than a few hours. As he changed, Yusuf saw Copley still standing by the window, staring out at the street below.

“Everything alright?”

“It feels like a dream,” Copley said and did not turn to look at Yusuf. “As though we will wake up back there, and nothing will have changed.”

Yusuf made his way over to Copley, rested a hand on his shoulder. “We are here. This is real. I can promise you that.”

Copley nodded and he was blinking fast. He took one deep breath and finally tore his eyes away.

“I suppose I will get used to it.” 

“You will. We both will. Wash up, now. The water is growing cold.”

Copley washed and changed; while he did, Yusuf set out his meagre belongings on his bed. He still had his saif – had been fortunate in that he had found supplies early to keep it in good condition, but he would need to purchase more tomorrow. He and Copley had collected any coin they could find, distributing it among themselves and the children who came to visit. Yusuf suspected Miss Lucas had done something similar. 

The letters were all in their box, pages and pages of them now, along with the journals he had begun using when he could get his hands on them. He sat cross-legged on the bed he had taken, the one closest to the door, and opened the box slowly.

His hands shook. The letters for Nile were on top; he had made sure to write her one a month, once he had realised he was writing more for Nicolò than her. He missed her just as much, truly, but he was aware she would _know_ that. He almost itched with the desire to ride out to Italy – but there was something to be done here first.

Yusuf set Nile’s letters aside, a neat pile tied together with ribbon he had found on a child’s dress. Nicolò’s took up the rest of the box. Well, almost. There were journals in there, scraps of paper, folded neatly, screwed up where he had been writing and zombies had attacked, some smeared with blood, some stained with tears. 

They were a testament to the last decade of his life. A quarter of the time he had lived so far. He had written to Nicolò almost every day; even if it was nothing more than _I love you, I miss you,_ he had made sure to write _something._ The exception had been those first few weeks, before he had met Copley and begun to get his mind in order.

Nicolò’s letter to Yusuf lay at the bottom of the box. Leyla’s note about Merrick was alongside it, because Yusuf had not known if he would ever escape the city and disposing of anything from his family was simply unthinkable. 

He unfolded Nicolò’s letter carefully. It had gone soft from age, from the many times he had read it – and the words were still firmly stuck in his memory, read in Nicolò’s voice, so sweetly.

Copley sat on the bed opposite. He appeared a little more settled than he had been previously; he nodded towards the letters in Yusuf’s box.

“Are you planning to deliver them?” 

“Not now. For now, I need you to do me a favour.”

Copley raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“I wish for you to go to Longbourn.”

They were both silent for a moment. “You could go there, Joseph,” Copley said. “You have not seen them in ten years…”

“That is why I cannot. If I went there, I would never leave. And they already believe I am dead. My return would only raise questions and, if there are more men like Merrick out there, which there must be, court danger.”

Copley sighed. “You will not even go and see?”

Yusuf shook his head. It was a decision he had been wrestling with since they had left London but, ultimately, he knew there was a good reason for Nile leaving England when she had. It would perhaps have been even longer before anyone in Meryton realised she had not aged a day; but their family? They would have known. And while maybe Yusuf could justify going back, revealing who he was, on his part, he could not justify it on the part of any of the others.

Besides, he had more than one burning question for Andromache and Sebastien and he was doing his best to suppress his eagerness to see Nicolò but he fancied that was already a lost cause.

“Alright,” Copley said, “How am I to go about this?”

***

Joseph – “Call me Yusuf, if you’d like,” he’d said – had told Copley it would all be quite straightforward. His family were kind people, he’d said, accommodating.

Copley did not doubt that.

It was, only, he believed a good dose of healthy scepticism was how one survived. If he was to say he had ridden from London, with their understanding of the situation and the memories of losing a brother, a son, to the bridge, then would they really be so amenable to allowing him into their home?

It did not take him long to find out.

As he approached through the woods, riding not quite from Meryton way but still, believably, up from London, he was stopped by a man. Yusuf had spent the night before – and most of this morning – drawing sketches of all his family members from memory; Copley had them stuffed into his inside pocket.

This was Eli Al-Kaysani-Freeman.

Copley did not jump down from his horse. Instead, he shifted in his saddle as Eli’s gaze swept over him. He wanted to draw his sword despite knowing there was no threat; he had not had the blade in his hand all day and it had his skin itching.

“Where are you riding to?” Eli asked.

“Meryton.”

“It’s back that way.” He pointed and Copley turned in his saddle, feigned confusion.

“Ah, I appear to have turned myself around. Thank you.”

Eli nodded, and now he was finished with the conversation, he appeared to wish to leave. As he turned, Copley spoke again.

“Tell me, do you know how much it costs for a night in any of the lodging houses there? I have just come up from London, you see, so I find myself in a bit of a… predicament.”

“London?” Eli’s eyes widened. “It is open, then?”

“Two days hence.”

“And you have nothing but what you are carrying, I presume?”

“No.” It was not even a lie; he had his other clothes in a bag over the saddle of the horse they had purchased that morning. If he did not mention that his pockets were full of coin, well, Eli had not asked.

Eli studied Copley for a long moment. If this failed, he would have to find some other way to Longbourn, or to at least assess what had happened to the family in the last decade. 

“Follow me,” he said, eventually. “Mama would kill me if I left a traveller on the road. We have food and room enough.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” Copley said. “May I enquire after your name?”

Eli started walking and Copley urged his horse into a walk alongside. “Eli Al-Kaysani-Freeman,” he said, which Copley of course already knew. “And you, sir?”

“James Copley. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

***

Copley met Yusuf’s father and stepmother in quick succession, both of whom were unfailingly polite, although he saw the pain that crossed their faces when Eli mentioned he had come up from London. Still, it had Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman fussing around him, insisting that he allow a servant to carry his things to a guest room, pressing him down into a seat for dinner.

“Leave the poor man alone, Selam,” Mr Al-Kaysani said. “You will be trying to feed him, next.”

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman glared at her husband but there was no heat behind it. 

“It is quite alright,” Copley replied, ever quick to reassure. He could feel the love in this house, could imagine Yusuf growing up here, surrounded by people. “It has been a while since I have had anyone to…” He trailed off. He was here for Yusuf, to see how his family was.

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman patted him on the shoulder and moved to sit next to her husband. 

They both had to be in their sixties or seventies but they moved around like people much younger. And, while Eli was now the head of the household – a quick enquiry in Meryton had told him that Eli was running his father’s successful trade business – it was clear this was still his parents’ home. 

Eli’s wife, Jane, was a pretty, dark-haired woman from Meryton; she had greeted Copley warmly when Eli had introduced them, a babe – Maryam, Eli had said proudly – on her hip. Now they were all sitting around the dining table, and Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman was looking between one empty chair and the door.

“Where _is_ that girl?” she said finally, and Eli shook his head.

“She is unwell, mama.” He looked over at Copley. “My youngest sister, Leyla, is visiting. She has been abed all day; a terrible headache. I am not sure she will be eating.”

As if she heard him, a woman swept into the room. She was pretty, lively-looking, though her eyes were sharp. Something in her features reminded Copley of Yusuf, although her colouring was closer to that of her other brother.

“My apologies,” she said, taking the seat to Copley’s right, opposite Jane. “When I heard voices, I realised I would have to hurry to make myself presentable.”

Eli murmured something under his breath but the woman – Leyla – ignored him. She turned to Copley instead, eyeing him over critically before she reached out her hand. “I am Leyla Al-Kaysani,” she said. “You are…?”

“James Copley,” he said, and he shook her hand without hesitating.

Her smile only widened at that. Servants brought out their food and Copley did his best to take his eyes off her. Yusuf had told him of all his family, of course. Once he had told Copley about the dreams, he had even updated him on what he saw of their lives – it was almost all the entertainment they had outside of reading. 

Leyla had spent the most time with Nicolò and Copley knew that meant Yusuf would forever be grateful to her. He wondered, personally, if that meant too that she knew the truth; if she was, to Nicolò, similar to what he was to Yusuf.

He could not be certain. He would _never_ reveal what he knew.

“So, Mr Copley, what brings you to Longbourn?” Leyla asked as they began their first course.

“I just left London,” he said and she turned her head so fast he was worried she had hurt herself.

“You survived _ten years_ of that?”

“Leyla,” her mother said but Copley shook his head.

“Yes,” he replied. “I found a good friend. A small community. We all made it because of each other.” 

She was still staring at him but, when she realised, she nodded. “That is incredible,” she said, turning back to her soup.

Jane engaged Leyla in polite conversation about their children as the next course was brought out and Copley found himself listening intently, attempting to soak up every drop of information he could carry back to Yusuf.

“What are your son’s names, sorry?” Copley asked when there was a lull in the conversation. 

Leyla brightened immediately. “Ah, Joseph and Amir,” she said and Copley fought to hide the emotion that passed through him; she had named her eldest son for her brother, a brother who was less than an hour away. “They can be quite a handful but Alexandre is adept at looking after them.”

“Alexandre being your husband?”

Leyla laughed and, this time, so did Jane; Eli was in deep conversation with his stepfather and Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman appeared to be absently listening to the talk from all five of them.

“Alexandre being her handsome French husband who even took her surname, sir,” Jane said. 

Eli perked up at that, turning to his wife. “Who is handsome, now?”

“You, of course, but you cannot deny the way Alexandre swept our Leyla off her feet!”

Leyla was a little flushed, and Copley did not think it was from the wine she had been sipping. “He _is_ handsome,” she admitted finally and Eli rolled his eyes. 

“Some things about you never change,” he said, in Arabic, and Copley dropped his eyes so it did not seem as though he was listening. He was not sure how he would explain that – when it had to be clear to them that he did not share in their education, their general station in life.

“Which is why _I_ am the greatest swordswoman in the county and you are… what, exactly?” Leyla retorted, also in Arabic, and Copley did his best not to grin. 

Still, his lips twitched and Leyla looked at him sharply; but Jane spoke before Leyla could say anything.

“Eli has been attempting to teach me some Arabic,” she said, almost as though she were confiding in him. “I have to confess to finding it terribly difficult – but he says I am getting there.”

Eli kissed the side of her temple. “You are doing very well, habibti.” 

She reddened, and Copley had flashes of a life he had never managed to live, a life he had missed out on. He pushed his food around his plate and when Leyla reached over to lay a hand on his arm, he startled. 

“Are you quite alright, Mr Copley?”

Copley managed a tight smile. “Quite,” he replied. “I think I am simply… tired. It has been a long day.”

“A long ten years, I imagine,” she replied sympathetically. She looked up. “Mama, I am finished. Should I show Mr Copley to his room?”

Mrs Al-Kaysani-Freeman nodded and Copley thanked her profusely for the meal, said his goodnights to the others.

Leyla walked Copley up to the first floor and they paused outside one of the doors. “I believe everything will be inside,” she said. Copley nodded and Leyla searched his face, though he did not know what she was looking for.

She did not seem to find it. Copley smiled. “Thank you for the meal, and the company. You all have been too kind.”

Leyla smiled back. “I am not certain that is possible, sir,” she said. 

***

Copley woke in a soft bed, in a warm room, with a blade to his throat. His fingers tightened in the sheets as he did his best to keep his entire body still; he did not wish to be the cause of his own demise.

He doubted he would share in Yusuf or Nile’s luck in that regard.

Sunlight was pouring through the window and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust; when he saw who was standing there, he gasped. “Mrs Al-Kaysani.”

Leyla smiled but unlike the one she had given him the night before, this one did not reach her eyes. “Mr Copley.” She was holding something in her free hand – Copley’s heart sank when he realised what it was. 

Yusuf’s drawings.

All of them, her and Karima and Eli and Nile and their parents… 

“Where did you get these?” she asked. Her voice was as cold as her expression. 

Copley considered himself a good liar but he did not know what to say. He had not counted for this; he had left the sketches in his pocket for a reason.

He had certainly not planned for Yusuf’s youngest sister to break into his room and seek them out.

“I– That is, I–”

Leyla rolled her eyes and withdrew her sword. “You got them from my brother.”

“Eli? I–”

“Yusuf.”

Copley was, for once, not certain about what he should do. He always had a strategy, _always;_ it had been what had helped him to survive. He had not planned for any of them finding out that Yusuf might be alive, for finding out his reasons for being at Longbourn were anything more than what he had told them.

“He is alive, is he not?” 

She was not looking at him. Instead, she was tracing the lines of one of the images with her eyes – the one of her. It was not an exact likeness; instead, it was an amalgamation of how Yusuf had remembered her and the flashes of her image he had seen through his dreams of Nicolò.

“He is,” Copley said and it felt like a betrayal.

Leyla stared at him and tears welled up in her eyes but she dashed them away before any could spill. 

“Where is he?”

“I cannot take you to him.”

The sword was at his throat again and Copley regretted not hiding his own under his pillow. It was in easy reach but she would almost certainly get there first.

“He is in Meryton.”

Leyla hummed. This time, she did not withdraw her blade. “Here is what we will do.”

What they did was: have breakfast, wherein Copley did his best to be friendly – and was truly grateful for the kindness the family had shown him – and Leyla hid her nervous tension, her excitement, under a barrage of chatter. After breakfast, Copley regretfully said his goodbyes and Leyla offered to ride with him to Meryton; she had business there, she said, and besides, this way she could be certain he would make it to his intended destination.

No one was any the wiser when they left and once they were on the woodland path, Copley sighed.

“You did not have to threaten my life.”

Leyla shrugged. “I probably would not have killed you,” she said. “It would have been difficult to explain. Keep your eye out for zombies.”

Copley nodded. Birds were singing overhead, which did not indicate the presence of anything out to kill him, but he found that focusing on this settled his nerves a little. He was used to this level of alertness and although he knew it tired him, made his shoulders bunch and ache, it dispelled his anxiety.

They arrived in Meryton late in the morning and Copley led Leyla to the lodgings house he and Yusuf had rented a room in. They tied up their horses and she hesitated, on the threshold; Copley did not think it was because she was worried about her reputation, following a stranger who was most definitely not her husband inside.

“How… how is he?” she asked. Her voice was suddenly small and Copley stepped up next to her, close.

Yusuf had told him all of it, all with Merrick and the rest, and it struck him that she had not seen Yusuf since before she had left with the man. Nicolò had been the one to rescue her, had sent her off on the horse to Nile, who had chased her across the bridge.

She had not seen Yusuf in all that time.

“He is healthy,” Copley said, because it was true. “And he misses you.” That was true, also.

Leyla nodded, took a deep breath, and entered the house.

***

Yusuf had made his morning as productive as possible, if only so he could take his mind off Copley and his family. The night before he had been unable to sleep; he had begged more paper and ink from the landlord downstairs and had written to Nicolò of his excitement at the prospect of their reunion, of being a handful of miles from his family with no way of contacting them, of feeling like a ghost, haunting the shadows of his former life.

He had fallen asleep, eventually, but had woken with the sun and set out for the day. He had bought the tools he needed to keep his saif in good shape, had bought some food – including dates, which were a special thrill – and had arrived back at the lodging house around half an hour before. 

Copley had not tried dates before, he thought; when he arrived back, they could eat them and Yusuf would hear all about his family and hopefully, _hopefully,_ that would be enough.

A knock at the door caught his attention. It could only be Copley and so he strode over to it, almost laughing, “Copley, we are not in great danger of attack here, you do not have to–”

Leyla stood on the other side.

Yusuf’s fingers slipped from the doorknob and they both just… stared at each other.

She had grown – not in height, but into a woman, with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes, dark eyes that were shining as she traced his face in turn.

“You _are_ alive,” she said and then she was throwing her arms around his neck and Yusuf wrapped his around her waist on instinct, burying his face in her shoulder. They stumbled back into the room and Copley shut the door behind them, wandering over to the table where Yusuf had left the dates.

“Leyla,” Yusuf said; it came out almost as a sob. “What are you _doing_ here, Leyla?”

“That is my fault,” Copley said. Yusuf looked over at him and he was blurry; he touched his cheek and his fingers came away wet.

“I threatened to kill him twice, you cannot blame him,” Leyla replied. She reached up and tugged on Yusuf’s beard. “This is new.”

Yusuf laughed. He could not help it; he was not sure if laughing or crying was the more appropriate reaction and then he thought probably neither and then he thought actually, there were few enough people who had endured this situation that they could tell him what he should do.

“I cannot believe you are here,” he said and she hugged him again, tucking her head underneath his chin.

“I cannot believe you are _alive,”_ she replied. “Sit, sit. I want to hear whatever you will tell me.”

She dragged him over to the table and he did not stop staring at her as they sat, as Copley busied himself making tea and she picked the dates and fruit out of his bag.

“You look happy,” he said and she stopped mid-movement, then reached over and squeezed his hand. 

“I am happier knowing,” she replied. “I hoped you were alive, you know. Nicolò told me so many times you could not be – that he would _know,_ that it was so unlikely both you and Nile would be from the same family and the same in this way, too. I am not sure whether he was trying to convince himself or me more.”

“Is he…” Yusuf cleared his throat, tried again. “Is he well?”

Copley set tea in front of them and then took a seat with his own cup. Yusuf had not considered, even for a second, sending him away. They had spent every day together for the last ten years. Copley knew almost every second of his life – and vice versa. 

They had to share this moment, even if Leyla did not understand.

It seemed as though she did.

“He is,” she replied. “They are in Italy now, or were when he sent his last letter. He does his best to honour you, Yusuf. He truly believes you are dead.”

Yusuf swallowed around a lump in his throat. 

Ten years. _Ten years_ Nicolò had thought Yusuf dead; Yusuf, in contrast, had clung to his dreams of Nicolò, knowing they meant he was living – in whatever form that took.

Leyla squeezed his hand again. “He will be glad to see you Yusuf, I promise.”

“If my appearance does not strike him down where he stands,” Yusuf said into his cup and they both laughed.

Yusuf offered around the dates; Copley took one with a bemused expression that cleared as soon as he took a bite. Leyla ate a handful of grapes, slowly, still hardly looking away from Yusuf’s face. 

She took a deep breath all of a sudden, said, “Yusuf, I can only apologise–”

Yusuf waved her off. He did not want her apologies – how could he ever blame her for what had happened to him? Instead, he said, “I have seen nothing of your life in five years. Tell me about it.”

Leyla smiled and it was a touch relieved. “Do you know that I am married?”

He had seen the ring, of course, but wanted her to tell him.

“So now you are Mrs…?”

“Al-Kaysani,” Leyla said with a sniff. “Alexandre took _my_ name, I’ll have you know; well, he is Alexandre Al-Kaysani-Dubois, now, as are the children.”

“Children?”

“Joseph and Amir,” Leyla said. Her eyes softened at the mention of them – and Yusuf did not miss the significance of the name.

“Joseph?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “His middle name is Antoine, if it helps.”

Yusuf laughed. “How was baba, about you marrying a Frenchman?”

Copley lifted his head. “He takes issue with that?”

“Only playfully,” Leyla replied. “It is the main thing he connected with the English over, but all in jest. And besides, once Nile married Sebastien, it was less of a problem. We then had Eli’s wedding to Jane–”

“Jane? Oh, finally!”

“I know.” Leyla laughed. “He proposed to her the day after Nile and Sebastien left for their honeymoon; I think he had been planning it the entire time. They have baby Maryam, she is very sweet. Well, then Karima married Robert – Robert Turner – and they have moved to Buckinghamshire. He is from Meryton but has family out there. They have four children; twin boys, Jalal and Charles, and two younger girls, Selam and Caroline. Named for our parents and his, of course. And then I met Alexandre, at a ball Robert’s friend was throwing, and the rest is history.”

“Love at first sight?” Yusuf asked.

Leyla ducked her head, looking down at her cup. “Yes,” she admitted. “Although I nearly called off the whole thing when I discovered he did not know how to hold a sword, much less wield one.”

Yusuf snorted. “I presume you have rectified that?”

“Of course! I could not–”

Someone knocked at the door and they all froze. Yusuf got to his feet but Leyla shook her head and walked past him, opening it a little way.

The lodging house landlord stood there and where his eyes had been narrowed before, they widened when he saw Leyla.

“Mrs Al-Kaysani, I– I heard an unaccompanied woman had entered and I–”

“I have come to visit my friends,” Leyla said and her tone was so sweet but Yusuf recognised the steel beneath. “I assume there is no problem with that?”

“Of course not, I–”

“Because these men are simply friends, you understand, and I do not mean in the same way as you are friends with Mrs Collins, Mr Williams.”

The landlord flushed; if he had not regretted knocking on the door before, he most certainly did now.

Leyla tilted her head and smiled. “I only bring her up because much as you would clearly appreciate my discretion, I would appreciate yours. And we both know which of us would find ourselves in hot water over this.”

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, then nodded. “Of course, madam,” he said. “My apologies for disturbing you.”

He left and Leyla closed the door, taking her seat again. Yusuf stared at her.

“What was that?”

“Which part?” She took an innocent sip of her tea.

“He appeared terrified of you when you opened the door.”

Copley snorted. “Your sister is the best swordswoman in the country, if I learnt my Arabic correctly.”

Leyla laughed, delighted. “You did! And gossip is currency in Meryton, Yusuf, you know that. It is currency anywhere, in truth. Besides, I do not feel too bad about terrorising the poor man. Mrs Williams knows full well of the affair and she is conducting her own with Mr Collins.”

Yusuf mock gasped. “The Frenchman is getting to you,” he said and ducked, laughing, when she hurled a date at him. Despite everything, he was not sure he had had a better day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. i've had a shitty day so i'm gonna get to comments tomorrow (also it's like 2:30am sooo) BUT also i am concerned at how long these chapters are getting??? my own fault and i'm still doing my best to update daily because that means that 1) we only have a week left of this fic after this and 2) it'll finish on my birthday (just a coincidence but what a coincidence!!).
> 
> anyhow, hope you enjoy, sorry about the distinct lack of nicolò but heyyyyy he's gonna be here soon for sure 👀👀👀


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ball is overrun in Italy. Nicolò sees a ghost.

They walked in on a massacre. One of the servants had run to their villa, blood pouring from the wound on her head; she had stumbled into Sebastien’s arms when he opened the door and had only managed to say one word before breathing her last.

“Odorizzi.”

There was no sign of a bite mark, so Sebastien had lain her out in the hall as the others all retrieved their weapons. The Odorizzi family owned a lavish villa not far from the one Nicolò and the others had rented; it was a mere quarter of an hour away by carriage, though even that was too long, Nicolò thought upon their arrival.

The villa was overrun. People screamed within and zombies howled in the distance. Even as they all climbed out, weapons ready, Nicolò caught the overwhelming scent of decay, of blood. 

It turned into one of the longest nights of his life. Longer than on the battlefield, even, because at least out there he did not run into screaming aristocrats every time he turned around; soldiers knew better than to run into the open or attempt to step over the corpses of their fallen friends who may not be as dead as they first appeared.

Nicolò was caught out once, though he did not die, and it was not a zombie but a man who stabbed him in the shoulder. He knocked the sword away and sent the man out to the gardens, where the few survivors had to fend for themselves for now.

Andromache swept through the halls with her labrys, zombie corpses dropping in her wake, and Nicolò spotted Sebastien and Nile darting in and out of different rooms, occasionally dragging a survivor out with them.

When it was over, the entry hall the final place they had to defend, Nicolò took stock of the situation. Nile had fallen, at the end; Sebastien cradled her head in his lap, his sword still gripped in one hand. Andromache stalked the room, listening for any movement within the villa. 

The servants’ quarters had been decimated, blood streaking up the walls, and it did not take a particularly sharp mind to discern what had happened. The Odorizzis had decided to throw a ball, despite the fact that it was outlawed, now, that the king had sent in militia to enforce this; Nicolò supposed that it had simply been a matter of bribing the right people and then the party could go ahead.

One of their number must have been infected before their arrival. The Odorizzis could not have known that Nicolò and the others had done an excellent job of keeping the surrounding area free of zombies; free enough that Nicolò could be certain of his theory. Which meant that whoever had come here had been lucid enough, upon their arrival, and yet most of the damage – the initial attack – had taken place close enough to the servants’ quarters that it had spread through them like wildfire.

The door to that wing of the villa had been locked when they had reached it. The key was in the lock. It had made Nicolò sick to his stomach and it fuelled his anger now.

Nile gasped back to breath behind him and Nicolò heard Sebastien mutter, “Dieu merci.” 

“Are they still outside?” he asked Andromache. Nile struggled to sit upright. They all went down so fast when they were bitten, another difference between them and everyone else. Zombie bites did not _kill,_ usually, not unless they managed to cleave through and eat a person’s brain. 

It was an oddity he had no interest in investigating.

“Yes,” Andromache said. “You go to them. We will do a final sweep. Nile?”

“I am alright,” Nile said. Sebastien was helping her to her feet, handed over her sword. She thanked him by squeezing his forearm and then all three were off and Nicolò strode out to the gardens.

They cowered, when they saw him approach. Women in gauzy dresses, men in tailored suits – almost all weaponless, defenceless. 

Much like their servants had been.

“What happened?” Nicolò barked. “Where did your guests arrive from?”

The only surviving Odorizzi, Fabrizio, cast about wildly before it appeared to occur to him that he would have to answer. 

“Some from Lombardy,” he said. “Modena, Ferrara…” He trailed off at Nicolò’s dark look. They were not far from Rimini, near the coast of the Adriatic Sea. This family had been so arrogant as to invite their friends from all over northern Italy and they had endangered an entire city because of it.

“Did any of the zombies get away?” Nicolò asked. 

A woman nodded, even as Fabrizio opened his mouth to reply – presumably in the negative, if the way he scowled at her was any indication. 

“Where?”

“They headed toward the city, signor,” she said and Nicolò cursed. He did not care much when she flinched. He was covered in blood, tired, and now he would have to ride into the city and warn the militia of the threat – if he could not find the zombies himself, of course.

“I only have one more question,” he said, “And then my companions and I will be on our way. Who locked the door?”

Fabrizio frowned. “Which door, signor?”

“The door to the servants’ quarters. Who locked it?”

He had not thought it would be possible for Fabrizio to pale further than he already had but he did; he even swayed slightly from side to side.

“I did,” he said.

Nicolò drew his sword. “They were alive in there, were they not?” 

“She… She was in there already, signor. And most of them were gone by then – they had been serving at the ball and my father said, if we locked the door then she would be trapped.”

“It was too late.”

Fabrizio nodded, tears in his eyes. “It was too late.” 

Nicolò did not hesitate. Perhaps it was not his true purpose, to mete out justice in this way, but he thought of the poor girl who had died in Sebastien’s arms, who had known to come to them because she had struck up conversation with Andromache in Rimini several weeks before, and he slit the last surviving Odorizzi’s throat before he allowed himself any room for doubt.

He had a responsibility and he had shirked it and people – the most vulnerable in his villa – were dead because of it. It had not escaped Nicolò’s notice that everyone outside, everyone who had survived, was dressed in finery.

The other survivors made no sound, although they all wore expressions of varying degrees of shock and terror. Nicolò was so tired.

“I will fetch the militia,” he said. “I would suggest you all find somewhere safe to wait until they arrive.”

That done, he turned his back on them and walked to the carriage. Nile and Sebastien were already there, waiting for him; Nile ran a hand down his upper arm, as if to be sure he was still _him._

“Who did you kill?” Sebastien asked.

“Fabrizio Odorizzi.” They had all _heard_ of him before, despite never meeting him; he had a reputation that preceded him – none of it good.

“He locked the door?”

“Yes.”

Andromache joined them. “No sign of anything else in there,” she said. “We should go back.”

“Some of the zombies escaped, are heading for Rimini. I need to go and warn them.” 

Andromache sighed. She looked at Nile and Nicolò wondered how many times she had died tonight. It was not that she died any more than the rest of them did; truly, she was an excellent warrior. However, it was something she was still not quite used to and whatever she said, Andromache liked her to rest, if she could.

“I can go alone,” Nicolò said. Sebastien would not want to leave Nile’s side and he preferred Andromache to stay with them, for now. “I do not believe many will have eluded us. I will inform the militia, search myself… I should be back by dawn.”

“Are you certain?” That was Nile and she looked mildly relieved at the thought of returning to their villa instead of hunting more zombies.

“I am. There should be a horse in the stables – I will not be gone all that long.”

Andromache nodded and Nile and Sebastien said goodbye before climbing in the carriage. Andromache would drive it.

For now, she reached out, her hand cupping the back of his neck. “You killed him.”

“He killed most of his servants to protect a _ball,_ Andromache. Yes, I killed him.”

“I did not say you were wrong.”

No, she had not. Did not – usually he was attempting to be the voice of reason, although that role had more recently fallen to Nile. 

“Are you sleeping well?” Andromache asked and the non-sequitur had Nicolò looking up in surprise.

He nodded. He had been sleeping better, this last month or so; his dreams of Yusuf had begun to change into something lighter, more at peace. He had seen Yusuf with Leyla one night and had been terrified that she had died, too, but then a letter from her had arrived, a week later, promising him a gift in his near future and when he had seen it was dated after his dream, he had relaxed somewhat.

Perhaps, after ten years, some of his guilt was beginning to fade. Nicolò felt guilty about _that,_ too, because he deserved more than ten years of punishment for what he had done – but then maybe it was whatever remained of Yusuf’s spirit asking Nicolò to move on.

“Well enough,” Nicolò said. “The dreams are better, now.”

He had told her of his dreams two years after speaking to Sebastien, before they had even left England. Her sorrowful expression had put him off mentioning them again. The expression she wore now was similar to that, but it did not appear to be directed at him.

“There is something we have to talk about, Nicolò,” she said and it was as though the words were being pulled from her unwillingly.

“What?”

“Not tonight. Go to Rimini, return to us, and then tomorrow, all four of us will have a conversation.”

Nicolò did not much care for the sound of that. Something of it must have shown on his face, for Andromache’s grip on his neck tightened.

“It is something I have done,” she said, “Something I must forever make amends for, but I– It will wait until tomorrow.” 

Nicolò nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

She pressed her forehead against his, closed her eyes and when they parted, Nicolò pretended he did not see the tear rolling down her cheek. 

“Safe travels,” he said.

“You too.”

***

Nicolò did not bother to change, although he considered it for one brief moment; instead, he hunted down a horse – found one that had escaped the stables before the zombies had descended – and rode hard for Rimini. They were all known by the militia there and it was not long before he was granted an audience with Colonnello Iantosca, a burly man who eyed Nicolò’s bloody clothes with some trepidation. 

“How many do you believe escaped?” he asked, once Nicolò had outlined the situation.

“Perhaps a handful,” Nicolò replied. “I destroyed one on my ride here but I do fear more may be in the city.”

Iantosca sighed. “Thank you for notifying us. The Odorizzis?”

“All perished, I believe. There are some survivors at the villa. I would recommend you send someone out there.” 

“Very well. Thank you for your assistance yet again, signor. We have been most fortunate for having you and your family nearby.”

Nicolò ducked his head in acknowledgment, murmuring his goodbyes before he left. He would have to tell Andromache about the conversation, for certain. It was not good to stay in one place for too long and they had been in Rimini almost two years now. Not long enough that anyone had noticed they did not age, thank goodness, but with all the zombies around and the number they killed – it was still suspicious.

He untied his horse from the post and climbed into the saddle, leaving the militia house behind slowly. His stomach was churning; Andromache’s talk of having a conversation had been ominous and he was certain that was more than enough to make sleep elude him, tonight.

Never mind all that they had seen at the villa.

Nicolò turned back into the city. He could ride around once – despite the curfew, the soldiers would not bother him; most recognised him by now – and if he did not see any zombies, he would head back. 

As he rode, sword in his hand and his eyes ever-watchful, he thought of the dreams he had been having the past few weeks. He did not dream of Yusuf every night, to be sure, but often enough to note the change. Everything was bright flashes of colour, of the man Nicolò had seen Yusuf with in his dreams for ten years, of zombies falling at their feet… But also of vast swathes of countryside that reminded Nicolò of France, cramped rooms in small lodgings that were utterly unfamiliar to him.

He had puzzled over the change, at first, and had considered talking to the others about it. But it still pained Nile, to talk of him, and Nicolò would always spare her whatever pain he could. 

Instead, he had written to Leyla – had sent off the missive a handful of days before. Her last letter had been as bright as any that had come before and he hated to dampen her mood but it would be a week or two before it reached her, anyway.

Nicolò thought of the small sketches she had enclosed, drawn by Alexandre of their children with such care, and smiled–

Only to turn as he heard a zombie growl. 

The growl had come from a street or two over and he squeezed the horse with his thighs, turning it in the narrow lane. He could hear something else – a man’s grunts as he fought, perhaps? – and spurred the beast on faster; this had to be one of the zombies from the villa and he would be the one to bear this failure, if he did not arrive in time.

There were three zombies, advancing on a man who had his back to the wall, cast in shadows so deep that Nicolò could not make out his features, and even as Nicolò leapt from his horse, he saw as they overwhelmed him. 

The man cried out as they took him down, his weapon clattering to the stones beneath his feet. Nicolò made quick work of one, then another, and when the man went silent, still, he removed the head of the third.

He had been too late. Chest heaving with the exertion, Nicolò looked up and down the street; he doubted there would be any zombies hiding but he could not take the chance. If he were to die out here and a soldier came across him – he would not be able to explain that. 

A groan startled him and as the man reached for the wall behind him, dragging himself to his feet, Nicolò acted on instinct. 

He ran his sword though the man’s middle and, in doing so, many things happened all at once.

Footsteps, at the end of the street. A muffled curse.

The man with Nicolò’s sword in his chest, his head fell forward, revealing his features in the moonlight.

Nicolò fell back in shock. He landed hard and did not even notice the pain.

Steel bit into his throat, a voice shouting something at him in broken Italian but Nicolò could not understand it, could hear nothing, in truth, beyond the thudding of his own heartbeat in his ears and an entire horde of zombies could overrun them now because…

Because.

Because Nicolò had just impaled Yusuf Al-Kaysani on the end of his blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀👀👀
> 
> so happy you all have put up with the 30k (lol literally i just checked) of nicolò/yusuf being apart in this story about their relationship to get to this moment 😅


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò reunites with Yusuf. Yusuf sees his sister.

Nicolò was not certain he was not dead. 

It was, surely, the only explanation. He had died back at the Odorizzis’ villa, his final death; like Lykon and Quynh, it had been his time, and now he was in Hell, cursed to hunt zombies for all eternity, to kill–

The blade against his neck jerked and Nicolò felt blood spill down his collarbone. He did not move and the man cursed.

“You have to _leave,”_ he said and Nicolò shook his head.

“No, you must go, you cannot–” He did look up then, thinking he recognised the voice, and when he saw the face of the man who he had seen with Yusuf for _years,_ he was almost not surprised.

The man’s eyes widened in recognition in turn, although Nicolò was unsure how such a thing could be possible.

It did not matter. Yusuf gasped and Nicolò pushed the man’s blade aside, cutting his hand in his haste to get closer. Even if this was another dream, even if it was Hell, he had to see Yusuf one more time, he _had to…_

Yusuf’s eyes fluttered open but he was still gasping, hands scrabbling at the ground–

He hit the sword still in his chest, clumsy, and Nicolò rushed to remove it, his hands trembling, almost slipping from the hilt because of the blood on his palm.

Yusuf rested his head back against the wall when it was free and Nicolò watched, transfixed, as the wound healed before his eyes.

He had seen it before. He had seen it _thousands_ of times before. It had never hit him quite like this, even at his most terrified with all the people he had loved.

The man who had been standing at his back was on his knees beside Yusuf now, his sword safely sheathed. “Can you move? I passed soldiers on my way back.” He spoke in Arabic, the same Arabic Nile and Leyla had taught Nicolò, and Nicolò was not certain it was because he believed Nicolò did not understand or because it was easier for Yusuf, coming back to life.

He knew he did not like it.

Yusuf had not looked away from Nicolò’s face. “You are here,” he said, so softly, and Nicolò wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to wrap himself around Yusuf but also run away because he could not have this, he could _not._

“Sono qui,” Nicolò replied and Yusuf sat up at that, pressing his hand to his middle. He did not wince and so he stood, with no help from either of them, though the stranger passed Yusuf his saif.

“I was going to tell you I found her,” the stranger said, switching to English. He looked between them and Nicolò could not read his expression. “It appears he found you first.”

“How close are the soldiers?” Yusuf asked. He appeared to be back to himself; rather quickly, all things considered. Nicolò still felt wildly out of sorts and he had not just been killed.

Twice. 

In quick succession.

Another thought hit him, and it was as though he had been stabbed, as though he had thrust his sword through his own heart.

Yusuf had been _alive._ The last ten years, he had been alive and Nicolò had been _dreaming_ of him, had seen him die over and over and over–

Hands on his face, so soft, tilted his chin and he looked into dark, concerned eyes. “We have to go, Nicolò. I will explain everything, I promise, but Copley is right, the soldiers are on their way and we are not supposed to be out here.”

 _Nicolò._ He had called him Nicolò and tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes but he nodded and when Yusuf dropped his hands, he thought the tears might spill anyway. Still, he managed to sheath his sword, corral his horse, and Yusuf urged him up into the saddle again.

“Copley knows where the villa is,” Yusuf said and they were moving through the back streets now, but Nicolò could hear the soldiers too, knew they were close. “We can meet you on that side of the city.”

“No!” He could not let Yusuf out of his sight again; what if he was killed between here and there – what if he was captured and Nicolò truly never saw him again?

“Nicolò, _please._ It will be but a few minutes, I promise.” 

Copley flung his arm out and they stopped; Yusuf moved closer and reached up, touching Nicolò’s knee. “I _promise,”_ he said and there was an urgency in his voice that Nicolò had not been expecting. “I will come back to you.” 

His hand was warm, alive even through the fabric of Nicolò’s breeches, and when Copley gestured for them to move, Yusuf did not.

“Nicolò, you have to go. Wait for us there. Trust me, please.”

 _Please._ As though he had to plead with Nicolò for anything; as though Nicolò would not rip out his still-beating heart and hand it over, if only Yusuf willed it.

“I will wait,” he said and when Yusuf let go, stepped away, he rode off.

***

It took them longer than Yusuf would have liked to get through Rimini. Copley was hyper-vigilant, which Yusuf was thankful for, as his brains appeared to have scrambled the moment he had set his eyes upon Nicolò.

Well, perhaps the second moment. After his death. That had been quite a surprise.

“We are close, Yusuf,” Copley murmured from up ahead. They had ducked behind a low wall as a trio of soldiers passed; it had been his impulsive decision that they hunt for Nicolò and Nile tonight. He had not been able to stand being so close without seeing them; a month of tension – or perhaps a decade – had finally won out.

“Do you think…” Yusuf whispered back, internally rolling his eyes at himself because this was not _helpful_ and yet he could not help but ask. “Do you think he was glad to see me?”

Copley glanced back at Yusuf, shooting him a look that said, ‘you are asking me that _now’_ and Yusuf shrugged one shoulder.

“I think he was surprised,” Copley replied after a moment. “Honestly, I am glad it was him I came across and not some other Italian fool killing you. I would not have liked our odds had I had to kill them.”

They had been lucky, since leaving England, that Yusuf’s deaths had been few and far between. Copley was the one who had pointed out what would have to be done, should anyone discover the secret – he knew the truth of Merrick, after all. And, after meeting Leyla, Yusuf felt his friend was even more inclined to protect his family, all those nieces and nephews who Yusuf would never get the opportunity to meet.

Copley moved again and Yusuf followed. They had been in Rimini only since this morning, and yet Copley had already memorised the layout of the city as Yusuf had insisted Nile and Nicolò were close by. He had known it upon walking into the city proper; he had seen the Arco di Augusto before, albeit through different eyes.

“What will you say to them?” Copley asked. They were nearing the edge of the city, ducking down another back alley – but Yusuf could not hear soldiers close by.

“I do not know.” He really had not thought that far ahead and the excitement he had been feeling at seeing his sister was suddenly replaced by an uncharacteristic nervousness. 

If he had not still had Nicolò’s sword impaled in his chest when he awoke, if he could not still taste copper on his tongue, then he might have kissed him.

As it was, it appeared he would have to deal with Nicolò being even more taciturn than was his wont and Nile… She would, hopefully, be as pleased as Leyla had been and would not be angry with him, for taking so long.

They made it out of the city, saw Nicolò sitting up ahead. His expression cleared when he laid eyes on them, shoulders dropping in relief. Yusuf shook with the weight of his emotions and Copley reached for him, steering him straight.

“Are you glad to see him?” he asked. 

Yusuf looked at him sharply. “What kind of a question is that?”

“An honest one. You asked if I thought he was glad to see you. Are you glad to see him?”

 _“Yes.”_ He had known it was Nicolò, when the zombies had taken him down, had felt his heart skip when he woke again, gasping, and Nicolò had clambered to his side. Ten years of dreams, ten years of _longing…_

All at once, he understood what Copley was asking. Was he glad to see Nicolò, or was he glad to be at the end of a decade-long quest, to survive, to escape, to be reunited again? 

“I am glad to see him,” he said finally, firmly. 

He did not begrudge Copley the question; after all, if there was a person in this world, now, who knew him best, it was most likely the man beside him. There was the matter, too, of Copley’s wife, of his own waiting. He probably understood the whole course of events far better than anyone else.

Copley clapped him on the shoulder; they were close now and Yusuf saw Nicolò’s eyes narrow at the contact. That was something to be dealt with later. 

“We made it,” he said, instead, as they came close. Nicolò’s hands flexed on the reins of his horse. 

“You should ride,” he said, eventually, leaping down in a fluid movement. 

Yusuf shook his head. “No, you should–”

“I will,” Copley said and they both turned to look at him, surprised. “You both need a chance to speak to each other and horseback gives me the best vantage to see any stray zombies.” He muttered something under his breath and Yusuf did not catch the words, but he thought he understood the sentiment. 

Nicolò nodded and Copley climbed into the saddle. He flicked the reins and the horse started forward with a snort. They had traded their own steeds in three cities ago; there was always the risk of losing one, especially when they had come across more and more hordes, and Yusuf thought it might be a better idea to keep some coin.

“The way is–”

“I know the way, Signor di Genova,” Copley said and he urged the horse into a canter, not quite leaving them behind but giving them… space.

For a moment, they both looked at each other, but Yusuf knew he could not let Copley get too far ahead. He started walking and something fluttered in his chest when Nicolò fell into step beside him.

They did not speak for a long time. How, Yusuf thought, did one begin a conversation with a person they had not seen in ten years? Someone they loved – someone they were almost certain loved them back but they could not be _sure_ about that sentiment.

He would not take the risk an hour into this new part of his life. Not if Nicolò was not ready to hear it.

“I take it that is not all _my_ blood,” he said instead and Nicolò appeared startled.

He looked down at himself; he was wearing fine enough clothes but they were soaked through and stained. “It is not,” he replied softly.

“What happened?”

Nicolò looked at him – and Yusuf did not know what either of them had been expecting of this meeting, which was to say, Nicolò had not been expecting it at all, but surely it was not this conversation.

“A zombie attack.”

Yusuf sighed. He supposed he had forgotten Nicolò could be this way; it did not make it less annoying. “Where, Nicolò? What happened? Is N– Is everyone alright?”

Nicolò appeared to mull the questions over before he spoke again. “The Odorizzis’ villa. It is not too far from our own; they decided to hold a ball tonight and invited friends from all over the region and beyond. One must have been infected.”

“Did they all die?”

“No,” Nicolò said. Something haunted him about this, Yusuf was sure of it. “Signor Odorizzi and his son, they locked the infected woman in with the servants, when they found her in there. She killed them all but it was already too late. Still, some of the guests survived.”

“Locked her in?”

“Yes.” Nicolò’s jaw was tight. Yusuf wished to touch him but he kept his hands firmly by his sides. 

“The Odorizzis…”

“Their son, Fabrizio, he locked the door. He survived. Well, until–”

He cut himself off and Yusuf found himself asking the question without a thought. “Did you kill him?”

Nicolò stared at him. “Yes,” he said on a breath and his eyes searched Yusuf’s face, as though he were looking for a sign of disgust or hatred.

Yusuf’s lips twitched. “Good,” he said, his voice darkly satisfied, because he trusted Nicolò on this and besides – he would have done the same.

“You are different,” Nicolò said and Yusuf could read nothing into it; could not be sure whether Nicolò approved of the changes or not.

“Of course I am,” he replied. “It has been ten years.”

At that, Nicolò flinched and Yusuf sighed. Leyla had warned him of what to expect, of course, and he did not mean to apportion any of the blame of this onto anyone. He had woken alone, the first time, because how would they possibly have _known_ any different? He had not, when Nile had first died. 

And he would, of course, rather have had Nicolò be across the bridge with his family than have to have endured the last ten years alongside Yusuf – but how to explain that to him here, in the darkness, before he had even seen his sister again?

He opened his mouth. _I have killed someone,_ he wanted to say. _I would never blame you for doing what I asked._

_I love you._

The words would not come. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

***

Copley had stopped some way before the villa and Yusuf saw more than a little wariness in his friend’s face as they approached.

He frowned when he saw Yusuf and Nicolò were not speaking to one another but Yusuf had no way of replying. He could only hope that in a few days, once the surprise of it all had worn off, things would be perhaps more normal.

Perhaps not.

They walked with Nicolò as he stabled the horse with two others and Yusuf shifted from foot to foot as he waited. Copley was still the more alert of the three of them, though they had both noticed, as they had approached Rimini the day before, that there did not appear to be many zombies about.

“Are you ready for this?” Copley asked as Nicolò patted his horse’s muzzle.

“I… I think so,” Yusuf replied. Seeing Leyla and Nicolò had both been unexpected at the time, and so he had not had enough time to worry about what he might say, how they might react. 

“You need not be concerned,” Nicolò said, his voice still so soft, as though he feared Yusuf might shatter if he spoke too loudly. “She misses you.”

Yusuf nodded and took a deep breath to settle himself. “Please, signor, lead the way.”

That got him something new – a twitch of Nicolò’s lips, an action he perhaps could not quite help, and it sent a jolt of _something_ through Yusuf, something that had him following close on Nicolò’s heels. 

Copley let out a fond huff of laughter and trailed after them both.

The villa was not dark, despite the late hour, and Nicolò opened the front door himself, gesturing for Yusuf to enter before him. Yusuf did not look back to see who followed immediately after; instead, his eyes roamed the entry hall, the paintings, the understated opulence of it.

Was this what happened, over time? His family were not poor, of course, although advantageous marriages had taken some of the burden from his father – and now from Eli. But were the others used to this level of luxury, this kind of life?

Nicolò nudged him with his shoulder, and Yusuf all but leapt back. There was no amusement in the other man’s face at the move; rather, he appeared almost disappointed.

“Allow me,” he said and then, before Yusuf could react, called out, “Nile!”

Silence, for a moment; the kind of pregnant pause that occurred just before a zombie struck, in Yusuf’s experience. Then he heard someone move in one of the rooms.

“Nicolò,” Nile called back – and Yusuf could hardly breathe at the sound of her voice, the first time in ten years, “Please tell me everything went well, I do not wish to have to go to–”

She stepped out of the room, smiling, and then her eyes landed on Yusuf and his whole world tipped sideways.

It was, at once, the same as and yet completely different to meeting Leyla again. Nile had not changed – she could not have, they did not age – and yet, at the same time, she _had._ She had always been confident and now she wore that confidence like a second skin, a proud tilt to her head that told him she was content with the direction her life had taken.

And, too, the happiness in her. He had seen that the split-second before she had seen _him;_ she was pleased that Nicolò was back and sounded unharmed–

She let out a sudden sob, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her knees gave way and as Yusuf moved toward her, he saw Nicolò’s aborted movement, to do the same, out of the corner of his eye.

He landed on his knees on the marble floor, felt one shift painfully, but still he reached for her, wrapping his hands gently around her forearms. She shook her head.

“You– You’re dead, Yusuf, he _said–”_

Yusuf’s heart, already so tender from the sound of her crying, shattered. He did not pull her closer; instead, he rubbed his thumbs along her arms, did his best to blink back his own tears. “Nile, no, I’m here, I promise you, I’m here.”

She lunged forwards, knocking Yusuf back so he was sitting on the floor, now, and when her arms tightened around his neck, he wrapped his around her waist. She cried into his shirt – the shirt he realised, belatedly, that was still torn and covered with his blood and worse – and Yusuf looked up at Nicolò, standing just above him.

Nicolò’s eyes were damp too and Yusuf managed a smile before he turned his attention back to his sister.

“How?” she cried, pulling back a little to look him in the face. “How is this possible, Nicolò? You _said_ he had died.”

Yusuf did not need to look at Nicolò to know the hurt he felt at the unspoken accusation. Instead, he took Nile’s face in his hands, swiped tears away with his thumbs. To touch her again still felt so unreal and he knew he would worry, later, that he had died, truly, and imagined the whole thing.

“I did,” he said. “It is no one’s fault. No one could have known I would come back and I made Nic– Signor di Genova promise to protect you. That is what he has done, has he not?”

She nodded. “Still! They found me, Yusuf, why could they not find you, too?”

“I have been asking myself that very question,” Nicolò said and his voice had gone cold. 

Yusuf looked up. Monsieur le Livre stood in the doorway; clearly, he had heard the commotion and, as he looked at Nile, it was as though someone had gutted him. 

“You knew,” Nicolò said, voice flat and when Nile scrambled to her feet, Yusuf did the same. She did not move from his side but when she swiped angrily at the remaining tears on her face, Le Livre let out a small, sad sound.

“You _knew?”_ Nile asked. She was shaking, Yusuf noticed, and he was not at all satisfied to find his suspicions confirmed. It had taken him longer than he liked to admit to come to the theory that if he dreamt of them, they likely dreamt of him, too. Re-reading Nicolò’s letter had made it all clear. They had dreamt of Nile and so they had found her.

They had dreamt of Yusuf and left him there.

He had not believed, for one second, that Nile was privy to the truth about his state. Truthfully, he had only wavered on his judge of Nicolò’s character for a day or two, caught up for longer than he liked in the memory of the night at Netherfield and the way he had been pinned against the wall, no mercy in those green-glass eyes. 

But Le Livre? Andromache? She had respected him before he left, maybe, but he was certain she would do anything to protect those closest to her and it was clear he was not included in that circle.

The woman herself stepped out into the hall and, to her credit, she met Yusuf’s eye first. He hoped she could read it in his expression: he was less concerned about the hurt done to him. He could and would recover; but he could not forgive hurt done to those he loved.

“Andromache?” Nicolò asked and, oh, how Yusuf _ached_ at the questions couched in her name.

_How could you do this? To him? To me? Did you hurt me on purpose? Why? Would you never have told me?_

“I am glad to see you well, Yusuf,” she said and he knew she meant it but he did not much care. Behind him, Copley shifted, restless. He had confided the truth in Copley, of course. He did not want his friend caught unawares if this became a fight among immortals, which was why Copley held all their coin, anything Yusuf thought he might need to start a new life.

“You should not be surprised by it, if you have been dreaming of me for a decade,” Yusuf replied. There was some heat behind it but, unsurprisingly, he found most of his ire was desperate to be directed at Le Livre. The man had married his sister, had fallen in love with her, if Leyla’s presumptions were anything to go by – and Yusuf had no reason to doubt them – and had _lied,_ the entire time.

He turned to look at Le Livre and the man flinched, in response. He had dirt streaked up his arms, across his face. “If I thought it were worth my time, I would kill you for lying to my sister,” Yusuf said and Le Livre paled, looking between Yusuf and Nile.

“Did you know, when we married?” Nile asked – as if that helped, as if she did not already know that he did.

“I–” Le Livre opened his mouth, closed it again. “Yes,” he said finally. 

Nile’s hands curled into fists by her sides. “So, this is how you _honour_ me, is it? This is how you love me? By keeping this secret from me, by keeping my brother from me even though you knew he was alive–”

“We could not retrieve him, Nile, and we had no idea how long it would take–”

“Do you think we would have been more inclined to forgive you, Sebastien, had Mr Al-Kaysani returned to us a century from now?” Nicolò’s voice was tight and Yusuf hated himself for thinking it, but astaghfirullah, fury was a beautiful look on the man.

Le Livre, chastened, shook his head.

Copley leant against the wall behind them and Yusuf turned. In all the worry, he had forgotten – they had been travelling since at least the day before, had not slept, and his friend looked exhausted, despite the excitement. Nile’s eyes widened when she saw him, too.

“I know you,” she said.

“James Copley, madame,” he replied. 

“Can we take this to a sitting room, at least?” Yusuf asked. He was not certain who he was asking. “Or find Copley somewhere to sleep.”

Copley snorted and Yusuf understood his meaning plainly. He was not letting Yusuf out of his sight until he was certain this would not come to blows. 

“This way,” Nicolò said, gesturing to a room off to their right. Andromache slipped in ahead of them and Yusuf wondered if she felt the weight of what she had done. He did not know her age; he could not estimate it, but after ten years of infrequent observation, he felt she outstripped even Nicolò by several millennia. 

“I will join you in a moment,” Nile said. “I need to have a quiet word with my _husband.”_

Le Livre pressed himself back against the doorframe and Yusuf squeezed his sister’s hand before he entered the room, Copley just behind him. Nicolò closed the door.

Andromache had already taken up position in an armchair by the fireplace. She was not armed, as far as Yusuf could see, but he did not feel any less as though he was walking into a lion’s den. Copley sat on another armchair, the furthest away from her, and sighed as he sank into the cushions. 

Yusuf took a seat on one settee, Nicolò on the one opposite. For a moment, they stared at one another. A thousand things fell into place in Yusuf’s mind but the most important one was this: no matter what happened tonight, tomorrow, he would do everything he could to keep this man within his reach. 

He did not know his exact expression as the thought crossed his mind but whatever it was had Nicolò’s ears turning pink, lips parting and Yusuf thought, _I would like to keep him this way forever,_ turning only when they heard Le Livre shout from the hall.

“Nile, I am sorry, Nile, no! Please, ma chérie, no, no…”

There was a thud, a groan, and Yusuf glanced over at Copley, who simply raised an eyebrow in return.

Nile opened the door and entered the sitting room. Blood painted an arc up her dress, her throat, but it was clearly not hers. She settled on the settee next to Yusuf and when he put an arm around her, she looked at him. 

“I like the beard, you know,” she said and Yusuf laughed.

“Oh, I missed you, Nile.” 

She pressed her face into his shoulder but when she looked up again, meeting Nicolò’s eye before they all turned to Andromache, her expression was all anger.

“I very much hope you have a good explanation for this, Andromache,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this chapter brought to you by excessive use of the italics tag_
> 
> hope no one was too mad about where i ended the last one lmao! (if you were, you can still yell at me on [tumblr](http://kyra-bane.tumblr.com))


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf has questions. Andromache has answers.

Andromache leant forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Nile was pressed up against Yusuf, still, but he could see how she had positioned herself – between the two of them. 

He could not pretend he had spent every day of the last ten years thinking of _this;_ he had been rather more occupied with fantasies of how he might greet Nicolò again, or what Nile’s first words to him would be. However, asking Andromache why she had chosen to keep his continued existence a secret was a thought that had recurred frequently enough – especially as it had become more and more clear to him that that had to be the case.

She looked past them all, at Copley, and frowned. “Should he be here, for this?”

While Copley looked vaguely intimidated by all of them – which Yusuf thought unfair, as he was a capable man in so many ways, but also perhaps sensible, because even looking like this, worn down and unarmed, it was clear Andromache would not break a sweat if she was to decide to kill him – he did not appear scared. Instead, he looked from her to Yusuf and Yusuf nodded.

“Of course,” he replied. “He is owed as many answers as I am. You know I was not alone there.”

Andromache nodded. “I know.” She sighed then, pushing escaped hair back from her face. “Ask your questions, then.”

Yusuf was surprised, but Nicolò beat him to speaking. “Ask _questions?”_ he all but snarled at her. “You place this burden on him now, Andromache, after all this time?” 

“After all this time,” Andromache said, and she did not even look at Nicolò, “I would think you have questions you would like to ask.”

The truth of it was, he did. More with every passing second.

“When did you know I was alive?” 

“The morning after you had arisen. I dreamt of being torn asunder by zombies. Even with my long life, that is not my usual dream.”

“Why did you not tell them then?”

“I could not tell Nile or Nicolò without risking the rest of your family discovering the truth. Even if we somehow kept the secret amongst ourselves, they would notice changes in the people who loved you the most.” She sighed. “And then it became easier, almost, to keep it to ourselves.”

“Easier,” Yusuf scoffed but then shook his head. He _did_ want answers, he realised; he thirsted for them, and he did not want this entire conversation to fall by the wayside simply because he could not keep a lid on his own temper. “Alright. Easier, as you say. Was that why you did not come and retrieve me?”

Across from him, Nicolò flinched, and Nile let out a harsh breath. Andromache shook her head. “I rode for what was left of Hingham Bridge the day after your funeral,” she said and she could be lying, Yusuf knew that – knew, also, that he would never be able to _tell,_ if she was – but there was something in her face that he recognised.

This haunted her, he realised; not all of it, not everything, but this moment in particular did.

“What did you see?”

“More zombies than I have ever seen in my life,” she replied. “They were _pouring_ over the edge, flowing into the canal without stopping and the soldiers were terrified. The ditch is impossibly deep and they still worried that, with enough corpses, the dead would climb out and kill them. I could not see a way that we could get to you.”

“Per amor di Dio, Andromache,” Nicolò snapped. “We cannot stay dead, do you think we could not have made it over?”

“London had over a million souls when it fell,” Andromache replied, although she still would not look Nicolò in the face. “A million zombies against the four of us? I could not see a way through, physically, that would not have all of us suffer countless deaths. I could not see how we would find Yusuf and he would be–”

“But you still dreamt of me,” Yusuf interrupted. “So that cannot have been your sole reasoning for long.”

“It was never my sole reasoning!” She pushed up to her feet and began to pace and although Yusuf still got the sense of a caged tiger, he found himself less fearful than he would have thought, to see her cornered. “I had to protect the others. Imagine we did make it through the canal and up the other side. The soldiers would have seen us. On the return journey, they would have seen us again. Unless you would have preferred we killed them all, as well?”

Nicolò’s jaw was set and Nile’s grip on Yusuf’s arm was becoming painful. “I do not,” Yusuf admitted. “And I know the way across the canal was not feasible.”

“I have a question,” Copley said, into the pause that followed Yusuf’s words, and they all turned to look at him. He was looking directly at Andromache. “How many deaths is countless, to you?”

Yusuf could have groaned. “Copley,” he said, a warning, but Andromache was already shaking her head.

“We _can_ die and come back,” she said. “But we do, eventually, lose that ability. I do not know if every death takes us closer or we simply reach our time…” She did not have an answer for that, but Copley had found a thread, pulled, and Yusuf did not like where he believed his friend’s mind was going.

“Twenty?” he asked and he was leaning forward, eyes glittering in the light. “One hundred? You must have a number, an idea, to have decided it was not worth it.”

“Yusuf,” Nile murmured, as though she, too, understood what Copley was getting at. 

“I do not know,” Andromache said and it was quiet enough to be mistaken for a whisper.

“How many times did you die, Yusuf, in ten years?” Copley asked.

“I do not remember,” Yusuf said, because it was true; he had not kept track from that first day, even, when the zombies had surrounded him, torn into him. After that, what was the point?

“I do not know the exact number, myself. But from what I did keep track of, at the beginning, and what I have estimated since, I would say at least four hundred times. I assume there are many deaths you did not tell me about.”

 _“James,”_ Yusuf said, pained, because Nile and Nicolò were both staring at him now, identical looks of terror etched on their faces. He had wanted to spare them this; they would have dreamt it, of course, but he had hoped they would not associate those dreams with the reality of what he and Copley had lived through.

And that was the heart of the matter, was it not? He had _ensured_ Copley would remain living – the rest of the survivors too, insomuch as he could manage it – by putting himself in harm’s way, where the situation warranted it. 

Had they expected him to do anything less?

“Four _hundred?”_ Nile said, shifting so that she was staring up at him. “Yusuf, you– Why would you–” 

“Andromache is not lying about the number of zombies. We did our best to clear the city as much as we could. You saw it, did you not?”

“Yes,” Nile said, tears gathering, again, at the corners of her eyes. “You were fighting, _always_ fighting, Yusuf–” She buried her head in his chest as she sobbed and Yusuf could almost not blink back his own tears, now. 

He could not bring himself to look at Nicolò. Instead, he looked at Copley, who knew he had made his point; it was there in the set of his jaw, the subtle narrowing of his eyes. Yusuf had not thought, necessarily, that they would have been hardened by what they had seen.

It had been horrific, of course; they had lived in constant fear of attack, for so long – but it was not as though they had not spent sunny afternoons in parks, taken a respite to swim in a lake, sat up at night talking until the moon was high. Ten years of torture it might have been, but it had most certainly not been merciless; they had done their best to make their lives liveable. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said and Yusuf realised, suddenly, that they had fallen back into formal address when they had been reunited with the others and the thought surprised him so much that he looked up helplessly.

Nicolò’s expression hit him like a punch to the gut, harder than the sword through him earlier in the night, and Yusuf had thought he had known sorrow but he had never _seen_ it, not like that. 

“Did you think your life unimportant?” Nicolò asked, and it was, for a second, as though they were the only two people in the room.

“No,” Yusuf replied. “I thought my deaths unimportant.” After all, what was death worth, if it was not permanent?

Nicolò shifted in his seat, ran his hands over his face, through his hair. Yusuf swallowed around the lump in his throat.

He rubbed Nile’s back and thought, _I cannot continue this tonight._ It was permitting Andromache a small mercy; time to gather herself from his unexpected arrival, but he suddenly wished to spend time with his sister and Nicolò more than dredge through her reasoning.

“We can continue this tomorrow,” he said and Andromache stared at him for a moment, a beat too long, before she nodded.

“What are we going to do with your… friend?” she asked and she was truly handing the decision over to him. 

Yusuf looked at Copley, who looked back. “All I require is a place to sleep,” he said. “The floor, if necessary.”

Yusuf clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I assume you have a room?”

Andromache nodded, but the door opened and another voice spoke. “He is staying here?”

Nile sat up and turned so quickly that Yusuf feared she was going to launch herself over the back of the settee. “He is,” she said, giving Le Livre a disdainful look that made him take a step back. Blood stained his shirt and it appeared rather as though Nile had run him through. “Take him to the room two doors down from yours, Monsieur le Livre. I will be occupying the one in between the two, tonight.”

Le Livre snapped his jaw shut and nodded. Yusuf looked up; Andromache was still eyeing Copley speculatively and the well of rage inside him surged up again.

“I got the better of you ten years ago, Andromache. You had better believe I would do so again. And this time, I would not hesitate.” 

They stared at each other; Yusuf lifted his chin, just a little, because he _had_ killed, now, more than just zombies, for the sake of saving others – and he could not lie to himself. He would do a lot more to protect Copley and Nile and Nicolò than he had done to protect Miss Lucas and the poor children in that house.

“I do believe it,” she said. “Come along, Mr Copley. The monsieur and I shall show you to your room.”

Yusuf’s stomach churned but Copley managed a faint smile as he stood, fingers bushing Yusuf’s shoulder when he passed. He did not believe that Andromache or Le Livre would kill Copley, not tonight, but he felt more than a little guilt at leaving his friend to go off with them, alone.

The door closed behind them and, finally, Yusuf sunk back into the settee. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, because he was _exhausted;_ he had travelled for two days and died twice today and been reunited with Nicolò and then Nile, too…

“Are you alright?” Nicolò ventured, so carefully, and Yusuf opened his eyes again.

“I– I do not know,” Yusuf replied. 

Part of him had never believed he would find them, he realised, even as the hope of finding them had kept him going, kept him fighting and moving and _caring_ about other people; because, he was sure, it would have been simple to only care for himself, in London, fend for enough to live on and forget the others.

He did not know when he had started crying, only that he could not stop, and Nile knelt on the settee, tucking his head against her chest; when she beckoned Nicolò over, he came, folding himself into the free space on Yusuf’s right. His fingers brushed Yusuf’s and Yusuf sobbed, reached for him, their hands clasping together their only point of contact.

They both held him, this way, until he was down to soft, hiccupping sobs, and when Nile leant back to look at him, Nicolò still did not let go. 

“I have so many questions for you, myself,” Nile said. “But they can all wait.”

Yusuf nodded, wiping at his face with the back of his free hand. He had a handkerchief, somewhere, but was not certain it was not covered in gore and grime. Nile eyed his shirt speculatively.

“Actually, I do have one that I would like an answer for tonight, if you would indulge me.”

“Anything,” Yusuf said and for a moment, she looked close to tears, as well.

“What happened tonight? Why are you covered in blood?”

Yusuf and Nicolò exchanged a glance but, when Nicolò moved to let go of his hand, Yusuf only tightened his grip. Nicolò’s skin, he found, was softer than he had been expecting, and he had been rubbing his thumb against Yusuf’s while he had cried.

Something so simple, yet Yusuf’s heart fluttered in his chest.

“Three zombies caught me unawares in the city,” Yusuf said.

“Yes, that explains your back and shoulder, but not this,” she said, and ran her fingers along the tear in his shirt. 

“Nicolò may have run me through.”

Nile’s head shot up. “What?”

Yusuf already had a hand on her arm. “In his defence, he could not see me properly and when I started getting up, he believed I was a zombie.”

“That makes it twice, now, you’ve killed him,” Nile said and Nicolò flinched.

“Nile,” Yusuf admonished. “I did the same to you, remember. And tonight – I am fine. It does not matter.”

Nicolò clung to Yusuf’s hand and Yusuf rubbed _his_ thumb now, something inside of him unfurling in surprised delight at the hitch in Nicolò’s breath when he did. 

“Come along, then,” Nile said. “There is an unoccupied room next to Mr Copley’s. Do you wish to wash up now or in the morning?”

Yusuf yawned. Now that the idea of sleep had been presented to him, it beckoned, and Nicolò helped him to his feet, a hand on his arm, his elbow, until the touch faded away. He let Nile lead him to the room – later, he was not sure if Nicolò’s hand had brushed his again, in saying goodnight – and when his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, this was a tricky one to write. also ha i thought we were done with the angst but 100% we are not, buckle up everyone!
> 
> (also you might have noticed the total chapter number change - this is not a change in plan!!! i just can't count!!! 😅)


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò confronts Andromache. Yusuf argues.

Nicolò did not sleep. Out in the hall, after Yusuf had fallen into bed, Nile hugged him, and he held her as she cried; he could not be sure if the tears were falling because her brother was back or because Sebastien’s betrayal had cut her so deeply. 

It was likely to be both.

Eventually, he coaxed her into her room and once she had fallen asleep, Nicolò retired to his own. Water had been drawn – they had no servants on staff here full-time, but paid a few women in Rimini to come and clean, cook; one, middle-aged, had taken to fussing over Nicolò and drew him water every evening to bathe. The water was, of course, cold, but Nicolò still stripped, wiping blood and viscera from his skin. His clothes would have to be burned, but he could worry about that later.

After he had washed up, he stood in the centre of the room, shivering. It was only an hour or so to dawn and, as inappropriate as it was, he wished to sit in Yusuf’s room, if only to see the rise and fall of his chest with his own eyes.

He had not believed in miracles until earlier in the night, a sense of awe that had terror snapping at its heels. Part of him had, of course, known that the only way Yusuf could be in Italy, ten years after Nicolò had removed his head in England, was if he was like them.

Most of him had been entirely horrified by what he had done.

He pushed his wet hair back from his face and towelled himself down, dressing again with short, sharp movements. He did not blame Nile for her outbursts, of course. They had come a long way since that first year and she had told him, countless times, that she did not truly blame him for what had happened. 

Her killing Sebastien was a move he could not have anticipated. But then, he rather thought _he_ might still do the same thing.

Nicolò sat heavily on his bed. All the muscles in his shoulders were pulled tight, heart aching at the memory of the look on Yusuf’s face when he had said, sono qui, on that street. Four hundred times he had died, ten years he had spent fighting to stay alive, and two words from Nicolò had softened his expression from something drawn and haunted to something… human.

He dug his nails into his palms. If they were – had been – different, before, then perhaps he would have curled up with Yusuf tonight. He would have placed himself between Yusuf and the door, made sure his love could sleep without fearing that anything could burst through and kill him.

But they were not. He could not be presumptive on the basis of a look, an outstretched hand, a kiss.

He could, however, do something more productive with his time.

He had already heard Andromache moving around the villa. Sebastien, no doubt, would hole up in his room for a few hours or a few days, even, in order to lick his wounds – but Andromache was of an entirely different mindset. She had survived millennia and when Nicolò had first met her, he had thought she must have seen all there was to be seen. He had survived a cruel genocide he had helped perpetrate and she had, simply, seemed _tired_ upon meeting him; perhaps, if he were feeling generous, a little excited to meet someone new and like her, but tired all the same.

Now they were here, almost a thousand years later and Nicolò wondered, for a moment, when was the last time she had felt fury like he felt now.

He thought he knew, and that made him angrier still.

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him just so that it would not wake Yusuf, Nile, or Mr Copley. They all needed rest and he would not take that from them.

Andromache waited for him outside. The sky was already beginning to lighten, birds singing nearby, and Nicolò’s still-wet hair chilled him, but he did not much mind. 

“I thought you would come sooner,” Andromache said and it took all of Nicolò’s strength not to draw his sword on her then. She did not have her labrys – though he doubted she was entirely unarmed – and he thought, when he looked at her, that she might just let him do it.

“What did you _do,_ Andromache?” he asked. 

Silence. He stepped up beside her so that they were both looking out over the gardens of the villa – nothing like those at Rosings, or even Netherfield, but pretty enough all the same. 

“I was trying to protect my family,” she replied, eventually. 

“That is not good enough.”

“I do not simply mean you and Sebastien and Nile,” she said, and that did make him turn. 

When he looked at her, she looked back; he was faced with that stone woman, that goddess who had been followed and worshipped, and he realised he would likely reach her age too and he wished to never look that way.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not think it strange, the frequency at which we are arising?”

Nicolò had not thought much of it at all. He had never met Lykon, a man Andromache had mentioned in their first week together – he was, at first, a cautionary tale, or a soothing balm to remind Nicolò that while he would live for a while, it would not truly be _forever._

Quynh had not been with Andromache when she dragged Nicolò far from the Holy Land, but he had dreamt of her, this viper-quick woman, and he had known her for four hundred years. 

Andromache had loved her for six thousand.

Then it had been just the two of them, for two hundred years, until Sebastien’s arrival, and now Nile, and Yusuf…

“What do you mean?” Nicolò asked.

“If we reveal ourselves, Nicolò, we are not only endangering _ourselves._ We endanger all those who follow us, all those who rise and we cannot reach. We cannot have learnt nothing from Merrick.”

Nicolò punched out a breath. And so, it circled back to him. His failure. _He_ had been captured, captured in a way that was subject to the most intense scrutiny, and by not killing Merrick, he had set into action a chain of events that had led to Yusuf, believed dead, fighting to survive and Andromache, his oldest friend, betraying him in the worst possible way.

“You would lay the blame for this at my door?” He blamed himself, of course, for Yusuf being there – but had he known he was alive, had he _known_ it…

“No,” Andromache replied. “Just because Merrick caught you does not mean it had not been a threat for a while. As the zombie threat grows, so too do the quack doctors, the people who do the most terrible things in the name of research and progress. After what you told us, the image became… sharper.”

“Fine. I will take you at your word on that, Andromache. But why did you not _tell_ me?”

She shook her head. “I wished to spare you further pain.”

“You wished to…!” Nicolò cursed, took a heaving breath as he stared up at the sky because he could not _look_ at her now, he could _not._ “How did this spare me? You have been by my side the _entire_ time – did I look as though I was not hurting? Or do you think so little of me that you believe I would give my heart away and not hurt at all when the person I had given it to died?”

Andromache was staring at him, now, and he had not seen that expression on her face in a terribly long time.

Surprise.

She had not expected this reaction and, somehow, it made Nicolò even angrier.

It was, perhaps, why he said what he did next.

“Did you do this to me because I did not save Quynh?”

She reared back as if struck. Nicolò was breathing hard and his stance widened without conscious thought; Quynh was someone they never spoke about, someone Nicolò did his best to avoid _thinking_ about, because therein lay Andromache’s hurt, the core of her pain.

Looking back on it, Nicolò was certain Quynh had been hiding her mortality from them for a while. She had never hesitated, but he had seen the way she had begun to eye fights before throwing herself into them, the way she checked and double checked her armour, her blades. 

Andromache had not wanted to see it and therefore she had not.

They did not tend to protect each other – because it was unnecessary – unless they were likely to be captured, and when they had found themselves fighting pirates off the deck of the merchant ship they had been hired to protect, Nicolò had barely been aware of where the others were, in relation to him. He had been doing his best to protect the crew. 

Quynh, when he saw her last, had leapt from the rigging, landed on one pirate, her blade sinking home in the flesh of his back, and then–

And then, another had sliced his cutlass across her shoulders, once, and she had stumbled, turned and killed him, but Nicolò had moved toward her because she _wasn’t healing_ and as he reached out for her, another pirate grabbed her from behind.

He sliced her throat and tossed her overboard and Nicolò had removed the pirate’s head from his body in a swift, clean stroke.

Andromache had not been the same after that. They had parted, come together again; and when they found Sebastien, Nicolò thought she had finally shrugged off the spectre of her lost love.

Clearly, he had been incorrect.

“It has nothing to do with her.”

“Of course it does!” Nicolò said. “Even if you do not blame _me_ for what happened, even if this was not some attempt to make me understand even a fraction of what you felt upon losing her, then how could you be so cruel as to make me suffer through that?”

“Because I knew he would come back, in the end!” She was not crying – Nicolò did not believe he had ever seen her do so, except for that one day. “And in the meantime, I could protect you all from unnecessary deaths; protect our existence from prying eyes. If we have a finite number of deaths then retrieving him would have used up so many… I know you would have done it gladly, Nicolò, but what if it put you so much closer to your true end?”

Nicolò pressed his lips together. He understood that they needed to hide who they were, what they could do – but this was pragmatic to the point of being cruel; and if it had just been him who had been hurt, maybe he would have forgiven her. 

But she had hurt Yusuf. She had hurt Nile. 

“If Quynh had, by some miracle, survived, and I had hidden her away from you for even a year, Andromache, what would you have done?”

Her silence said more than any words could. Nicolò nodded to himself.

The truth was, he knew, already, that one day he would forgive her this. They all would, if only because so much time would pass that the hurt would erode down into something that remained, a dark spot on his soul, but something that could be forgotten when possible; ignored when not.

For now, he could not. Ten years was nothing to her; nothing to him, truly, and yet this past decade had been the longest of his already long life. And she had used Sebastien to help her in this – because she knew he would believe Sebastien unable of such a lie, being a sad romantic at heart.

“You believe, then, that we have a finite number of deaths?”

She swallowed, nodded. “It is all I can believe.”

“I prefer to think that we all have a time; it is simply that ours is further away.” His voice sounded unnaturally calm even to his own ears. He had patience, he realised, could be patient, for what he wished to promise her next. “However, by your logic, you have already caused four hundred of Yusuf’s deaths.”

Andromache made a soft sound. She still did not say anything.

“I will ask him, first, if he wishes to collect. If not, then I am more than willing to do so. And I _will,_ Andromache. You owe us so much more than even that.”

He was not certain that Yusuf would take the offer but he did know that Andromache and Sebastien’s punishment would be more than this. Still, as dawn finally broke, he turned and walked back into the villa, leaving her outside. 

Alone.

***

Yusuf woke to the sound of voices. Shouting. He sat up in a surprisingly comfortable bed and, when the events of the night before came back to him, the room spun for a moment.

He realised the voices were Nile and Le Livre; realised, too, that someone had left water to clean up in his room – water that he was certain had not been there the night before. He had not woken when the person had entered and he was not certain he liked the feeling. It was good he felt safe here, perhaps, but part of him cringed at the vulnerability.

He washed up, dressed in the clothes at the foot of his bed – his own, so perhaps Copley had been the one to bring the water – and ventured out of the room. 

Nile and Le Livre were still shouting in his bedroom; well, more Nile than Le Livre, now, and Yusuf walked gingerly past. It was easier to think of what his body wanted – food, drink, to clear away the dregs of sleep – than consider everything that had to be done. 

He had received no real answers from Andromache the night before. He was already restless, too, because even as they had been travelling, he and Copley had made sure to hunt where they could – do what they could, to help.

Yusuf somehow got turned around, looking for a kitchen or dining room, even; and when he turned and Nicolò was standing there, his breath caught.

He looked _good._ He looked exhausted. He looked at once both pleasantly surprised to see Yusuf standing in the hallway but also battle-worn, weary.

The restlessness shifted in focus; Yusuf wanted to reach for him, hold him, but he did not know how, so he did not.

“Signor di Genova,” Yusuf said and the expression on Nicolò’s face shuttered. 

“Mr Al-Kaysani,” he replied. _Ah._ Yes, it was not supposed to be like that. “Did you sleep well?” 

So flustered by the realisation that he should have _tried,_ Yusuf shrugged and replied without thinking. “I am not so used to sleeping alone but, yes, the bed is much more comfortable than I am used to.”

Something in Nicolò’s face had shifted again and, all too late, Yusuf realised what he had said. He did not have time to remedy the effects; Nicolò nodded and turned, but he did gesture for Yusuf to follow. “I am glad,” he said, as Yusuf fell into step beside him. “I take it you are hungry?”

“Yes,” Yusuf replied. 

The air between them was heavy. Yusuf did not want him to ask about what had happened, before; it made him uncertain of what he wished to talk about. Nicolò appeared to be dwelling on something, too – every so often, his eyes went distant, as though he were lost in a memory.

“Are you quite alright?” Yusuf asked as they entered the dining room. There was fruit set out, bread, and he settled into a chair with a happy sigh. 

“Quite,” Nicolò murmured. He sat across from Yusuf and Yusuf noted the dark circles under his eyes. Had the man slept at all? “I spoke with Andromache last night. This morning. Whilst you were all sleeping.”

Yusuf almost dropped the grapes he had been plucking from the stem. “You… did?”

“I did. I asked her why she had decided to leave you behind. I cannot understand why she would wish to hurt you, wish to…”

“Why would she hurt you?”

“I think I know the answer to that,” Nicolò said and there was a _world_ of pain in his voice. “But it is beside the point. She owes you four hundred deaths.”

Yusuf sighed. “Nicolò,” he said and when he looked back up, Nicolò’s gaze had sharpened. 

“Was I wrong to tell her that?”

“I assume it means you expect me to kill her four hundred times.”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes, perhaps you were wrong.”

Nicolò frowned. “I do not understand you,” he said, after they had stared at each other for a few seconds and Yusuf shifted in his seat, did not pick up anything else from the table.

“What do you mean?”

“You said, last night, that your deaths were unimportant. You made it clear that _that_ was why you were willing to sacrifice yourself so often for Mr Copley and the others. And yet, when I ask Andromache to repay in turn…?”

“My deaths were unimportant when it came to saving lives, Nicolò, but do not mistake that for carelessness! Or cruelty. I will not be cruel.”

“Yet she was so cruel to you.”

“And you.” Yusuf sighed. “She cannot compensate for what I lost – neither my deaths nor my time.”

“Are you… Do you forgive her?”

Yusuf shook his head. “Not yet. I am still angry, but I am angry at Le Livre, also; I am angry at myself for not attempting to leave sooner – for not wishing to leave, at all.”

Nicolò sucked in a breath. “What do you mean?”

“What if I was _destined_ to be there, Nicolò? A city with a million souls, brought to its knees by a zombie invasion, and I was there. Someone who cannot stay dead, who was well-trained and could protect the survivors, assist them. I am angry with Andromache because I know she did not even think of me as she left me behind and I am angry with her because she betrayed you and Nile, both. However, I cannot blame her for the situation I found myself in and, instead, I find my spirits lifted slightly by the knowledge that at least those people, who had been abandoned by those who were supposed to protect them, were not left all alone.”

Nicolò stared at him. He got up so suddenly, chair scraping across the floor, and then he was leaning over Yusuf, so much so that Yusuf had to tilt his head back to look up into Nicolò’s face.

“Now you are being the cruel one,” Nicolò said. He was but a breath away. “Nile thought you were dead. _I_ thought you were dead. Are you saying that if it had been a choice between returning to us and helping those people, you would have stayed?”

Yusuf bit his lip and Nicolò’s eyes flicked down to his mouth. He could lie, he realised – in fact, he did not even need to do that; he could press upwards, put his lips on Nicolò’s and he doubted the conversation would last long, after that.

Instead, he nodded. “I would,” he said. “And you would think less of me if I had returned. Take your revenge on Andromache, if you like. I will have no part in that.”

Nicolò did not move for a heartbeat, for two, and Yusuf’s pulse fluttered at the wild look in his eyes. Then he shook his head, let out a frustrated growl and pushed off from the chair, leaving Yusuf in the dining room with only his own thoughts to keep him company.

***

So blindsided by his conversation with Yusuf, Nicolò did not see Mr Copley until he had almost collided with the man. Copley stepped politely out of the way, to his credit; he appeared to be in the middle of running through some training drills, and so Nicolò apologised.

“Do not worry yourself, signor,” Copley said. “I have been out here for hours; I was more than ready for a rest.”

He sheathed his sword and Nicolò eyed him with more than a little concern.

He was certain his argument with Yusuf would not have happened, had Yusuf not let slip that he and Copley had been sleeping together. He had seen the subtle widening of Yusuf’s eyes – and, oh, he could not blame Yusuf for seeking out companionship during that time, not for a second, but it did not mean he wished to be reminded of it.

Perhaps it was more than simple companionship, too. Ten years was a long time, even for a young immortal, and Yusuf had such a kind heart…

“Do you have something you needed to ask me, signor?” Copley asked. He was a very direct person, Nicolò had noted the night before. Truth was, if it had not been Yusuf’s deaths they had been discussing, he would have appreciated the artistry of Copley’s questions much more than he had.

It was that thought that had him asking. “Are you and Yu– Mr Al-Kaysani… in love with one another?”

Copley’s lips twitched and Nicolò flushed with an irrational surge of anger.

“I apologise for my amusing question, sir,” Nicolò said and Copley did laugh at that.

“No,” he said. “Signor, my apologies. It is simply that Yusuf and I, we are good friends, I promise you, but that is all.”

Nicolò nodded but he was not entirely convinced. It was entirely possible for Yusuf to have fallen in love, even if those feelings were not reciprocated.

“I only ask because you were together for such a length of time, and obviously, he will…”

“Live a lot longer than I,” Copley said. His smile, this time, was almost sympathetic. “I already lost the great love of my life, signor. And besides, even if I were to show interest in Yusuf, I am certain his heart already belongs to another.”

Ten years. It had been ten years and Yusuf had never said the words, besides – _except, you heard them in your dreams,_ his mind whispered – so it could not possibly be him, could it? 

And he remembered, with a sudden burst of clarity, what Yusuf had said to him once, that dying was all they _could_ do for one another, and so of course he had used his deaths to protect anyone he believed needed it; and, at the same time, that he was the last man on earth Yusuf would ever be prevailed upon to marry.

“Excuse me,” he said to Copley because he had much to examine, to think on, and one of those things was the way Copley was smiling at him – almost as though _he_ was seven hundred years old and Nicolò was but a boy – as he turned and walked back into the villa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting close to the actual fluff i promise (i just love the yearning tho, honestly it's lucky the plot is wrapping up because i could still probably coast by on another 20k of slow burn otherwise. is it slow burn if they kind of know they're in love with each other but are just terribly repressed and won't discuss it? it is, right?)
> 
> still living for the comments (and the kudos/bookmarks/reads!!!) - will be replying to everything tomorrow, my last day at work before i take like a week off (and start kinktober) yay!


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf and Copley hunt. Yusuf makes a decision.

Three days later, and Nicolò had only actually killed Andromache once. Yusuf had not been privy to the event, although Copley had – Nicolò had cooked for them, had offered Andromache up a poisoned plate.

“I believe she knew,” Copley had said, later, “But she did not hesitate.”

Yusuf was not entirely sure how he felt about the whole thing. He swung from elation to fury to despair with only hours between each mood; it was exhausting him, quite frankly, and although part of him believed that simply telling Nicolò how he felt – how he still felt – might go some way toward grounding him, what if it did not? 

What if Nicolò did not feel as strongly, after ten years – or, worse, what if he did _now_ and agreed out of desire and what if, over time, that feeling transformed into disappointment or resignation?

That would be worse than an outright rejection.

Nile met him that afternoon and sat on the bench beside him. He had been sitting in the gardens for several hours now, a book on his lap that he had not opened. Copley was somewhere about the villa, exploring; he was as restless as Yusuf, and it showed. 

“You know your friend got into an argument with Monsieur le Livre this afternoon,” Nile said, dropping her head onto Yusuf’s shoulder. 

“My friend?”

“Mr Copley. I had to send him away; I feared it would come to blows.”

“I would fear for Le Livre.”

She huffed out a laugh. “True. But I would not see him injured, anyway.”

Yusuf nodded in reply. He rather thought Nile had been watching over both of them; he and Nicolò had spoken perhaps a handful of words to one another, despite their close quarters. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked him and, with them both facing the greenery, it was easier for him to speak.

“I fear I may have lost Di Genova’s good opinion,” he said.

“Hmm,” Nile said. “He did tell me once, you know, that once his good opinion was lost, it was lost forever.”

Yusuf’s heart squeezed, but then she laughed. 

“Why will he not speak to me?”

There was the despair. It was compounded, he thought, by the fact that he had done _nothing_ for the last few days – it was the longest he had gone without killing a zombie since his own death.

“Oh, Yusuf,” Nile said. She reached over and lifted one of his hands from the book, clasping it between her own. “Can I give you some advice, about poor Nicolò?”

“Of course.”

“He is going to forgive Andromache sooner than he thinks. He will forgive Sebastien even sooner than that. Ultimately, he blames himself for everything that happened to you – he is angrier at her for the lie because he already has someone to blame for leaving you behind.”

“It was not his fault.”

Nile hesitated, but then she said, “I know that,” and she sounded as though she believed it. “You know that. He does not see it the way that we do.”

Yusuf leant his head against hers. “Will he listen, if I tell him I do not blame him?”

“No,” Nile replied. “Yusuf, when we lost you, I did not speak to him for months. I said little more than hello or goodbye for a _year._ I have spent the last nine years trying to convince him that I was wrong to blame him and that I do not feel that way anymore.”

“Does he believe you?”

“I was beginning to think he did. And then you came back.” She laughed, quietly. “I know he blames himself again but still, he has not been as alive in ten years as he has these past four days.”

Yusuf let out a shuddering breath. “I do not know if I can wait ten more years, Nile.” 

Nile lifted her head then and turned to face him. He looked back at her reluctantly, uncertain what emotion she would glean from his expression. “Then do not,” she said. She seemed, suddenly, older; although, of course, he would still always be the elder of the two of them. 

No, she seemed _wiser._ As though she had learnt a lesson he had missed.

“When it comes to your heart,” she said, “Take what you can, while you have it. With lives as long as ours will be… do you really wish to live with that regret for all that time?”

Yusuf shook his head. He could argue, of course, that he had all the time in the world to _wait;_ except, of course, he did not. 

He simply had to find a moment to speak with Nicolò alone, had to tell him how he felt. 

If only things were ever that simple.

***

Dinner was an awkward affair. One of the women from Rimini, Lucia, had cooked for them, and when Yusuf tried to help her, she waved him out of the kitchen. His Italian was rusty, now, but he knew well enough how to smile at her and she rolled her eyes even as she shooed him away.

He entered the dining room to dead silence, despite the fact that all five of them were sitting in place. Copley gave Yusuf a significant look when he took his seat and Yusuf suppressed the wild urge to laugh aloud. 

Lucia bustled in, setting the first plate in front of Nicolò – as she had done the past two days, Yusuf had noticed. While she was, of course, technically younger than him, Yusuf suspected she saw him much like one of her own sons, who she had told him about the day before. He found himself smiling and, when Nicolò met his gaze, he did not allow the smile to fade.

The tips of Nicolò’s ears flushed pink and when he looked away first, Yusuf counted it as a victory.

They all ate in silence, though Yusuf did his best to be comfortable in it. He and Copley exchanged glances – and they could read each other well enough that he knew Copley, too, had seen the small, curious looks Le Livre was shooting at Nile, or even the way Nicolò was resolutely not looking at _him._

Andromache stared down at her plate and, once she had finished, pushed back from the table and left the room. Nicolò’s knuckles, on the hand holding his knife, were white. 

Nile was sitting between them, otherwise Yusuf might have reached out and eased the utensil free. Now, when he glanced up, Copley raised an eyebrow and Yusuf’s lips twitched in response.

When Nile had finished eating, she pushed her plate away. “We really do need to discuss what we plan to do,” she said.

Le Livre’s head shot up and even Nicolò seemed surprised. That soothed something in Yusuf he had not known was agitated. He had known Nile would be the first to demand they solve this problem, in whichever form that took; she did not care to waste much time on issues that had straightforward solutions.

Although, she had not done that with Le Livre, had she? Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she had known something was wrong all along. 

He would never ask her that, of course.

“What we plan to do?” Le Livre asked.

“About you and Andromache,” Nile replied. “I certainly cannot trust you now, either of you. I cannot speak for the others.”

“I do not,” Nicolò said. 

Le Livre was drawing in on himself, shrinking back into his seat. Yusuf felt a sudden burst of pity, then he remembered Nile, on her wedding day; the anger cancelled it out.

“I have never had a chance to,” he pointed out when they looked to him. “I do not think my opinion should have much weight here, if any at all.”

He did not say, _Andromache should be here for this,_ because he knew they were all fully aware of that and he knew, too, that she had most likely known what would be discussed, when she had left the table.

She was leaving them to judge her; she would take whatever punishment they decided to mete out.

Copley was still eating, acting as though he was not listening at all. 

“Are you going to continue killing us?” Le Livre asked and Yusuf would not have been surprised had he been angry, but he did not sound it. He sounded resigned to it and something twisted in Yusuf’s stomach. 

Was this what they would all become?

“No,” Nile said, quickly, and then appeared angry at herself. Yusuf let out a relieved breath.

“You do not even appear sorry for your actions,” Nicolò said. “Are you?”

“Of course I am!” Le Livre said and, for the first time, he looked to Yusuf and Copley. “If I could do it all again, I would not– I might have still told the lie. But I would not have kept it; Nile, believe me, I would have told you before our engagement.”

“But you did _not,”_ Nile said. “You cannot change the past, Sebastien.”

“No, I cannot,” he said, and the look he gave her – Yusuf _felt_ it, and he could not forgive Le Livre, would not, but for a moment the tide of his anger receded, leaving something hollow in its place. 

He stood, all of a sudden – because he had to get out of that room, the entire villa, even. 

“Yusuf?” Nile said, but he shook his head. 

“I–” Would they keep killing their friends, the only companions that would see them through most of their life? Could he ever truly trust Le Livre or Andromache to fight alongside him, to value him for all that he was? Did he even have a future here, until all this was settled? 

“I have to go,” he said, and at the horrified expression on Nile’s face, added, hastily, “To bed. I am going to sleep and perhaps I will… feel more able to continue this tomorrow. Good night.”

No one objected – because of course, they did not – and he escaped the room, taking long strides until there was a hallway between him and the others. 

Copley joined him a minute or two later, leaning back against the wall. “You do not appear to be tired,” he said.

Yusuf shook his head. His heart was racing, all that anxious energy building up inside and if he did not, somehow, get it out, then he would never be able to move forward, no matter which route he decided to take.

“I am not,” he said. “How do you feel about a hunt?”

Copley nodded. “I feel it is overdue.” 

They returned to their own rooms and did not leave until the other doors had shut. Yusuf’s room had a balcony, looking out over a small pond, and so, an hour after the last door – Nicolò’s – had closed, Copley joined Yusuf in there, armed to the teeth and as determined as Yusuf had ever seen him.

“I do fear we may find nothing,” Yusuf admitted as they climbed down the side of the villa. 

Copley grunted as he jumped the final bit of the way, landing heavily. “It is nice to be out, regardless.”

It was true. They had not been confined to the villa, as such, but Yusuf knew his ties to Nile and Nicolò were keeping him there; for Copley, it was only him. Besides, Copley likely felt the weight of Andromache’s gaze much more keenly – Yusuf would always do his best to protect his friend, but he could not be a constant guardian.

They walked into the woods, just enough light from the moon to see, and it was honestly peaceful. Yusuf felt some of the tension of the past few days leave him.

“I do not know what they will do,” he said and Copley nodded.

“They will want you to be part of the decision, you know,” he replied. “Your sister and your… and Signor di Genova, they want you to begin this life with them on equal footing.”

Yusuf hummed his agreement. “I know. But it is their decision to make, truthfully. It does not matter much to me, whether we all remain together or not – I do not know Andromache or Le Livre particularly well. If I say I never wish to see them again and they choose that, too, then when they change their minds, it is me they will resent.”

Copley shook his head. “I do not believe they would. You have so much _time,_ Yusuf. Nothing has to be permanently chosen.”

“I look at Le Livre and never want him near my sister again.”

Copley laughed at that. “Well, of course, but that has little to do with your immortality and I believe rather more to do with your sister. He hurt her, Yusuf. That is a very common reaction.”

Yusuf smiled now, too – though it fell from his face when he heard a low growl. They both turned, back to back, weapons drawn.

Two zombies emerged from the darkness of the trees around them. Yusuf’s hand tightened on his saif; he heard his heartbeat in his ears and he did not like the curious way the undead looked at them but _this_ was not a question – it was something to balance him, more of an equal footing than the decision in that villa would ever be.

Copley moved first and Yusuf ducked when the zombie facing him lunged, sweeping his blade low and cutting across its knees. It stumbled, fell, and he wasted no time in removing its head. He was almost surprised, for a moment, that there was not another stepping up to take its place, but it appeared that Nile and the others had been as industrious as they had claimed.

A shout came from behind him and Yusuf spun around, only to see the remaining zombie grappling with Copley; it managed to hit him and he stumbled. Yusuf ran to him, pushed him aside, and when the zombie tore at his arm, he cut off the limb at the elbow.

It blinked, turned its head to look at him and then snarled as it surged forward; Yusuf sliced across its chest and, when it fell back, did the same again across its middle. It tumbled back to the ground and Yusuf removed his second head of the night, breathing hard.

Once he was sure it was destroyed, he moved to Copley. “Are you alright? Have you been bitten?”

“Fine. I was not bitten, Yusuf, I swear…” He clearly had not been, and Yusuf shook his head. He had not been either, though it had been a close call – his jacket was torn, shirt bloody beneath. 

That had been a strong zombie.

“Perhaps…” Copley said, and hesitated. 

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps we should return to the villa.” They had been gone perhaps an hour. It was not long enough, not for Yusuf, but he would not make Copley remain out here a moment longer if he did not have to.

He saw a flash of something out of the corner of his eye – another zombie? – but when he turned to look, it was gone.

“You are right,” he said. “Let us return.”

***

They still took the walk back slowly, Copley clearly turning something over in his mind. Yusuf found, remarkably, that he had a better idea of what he wished to do – he had survived in London because he had found _purpose._

He did not have it here. Not beyond living for Nile, for Copley, maybe for Nicolò – and all of those relationships were fraught with something, right now. If he was to live for the next several millennia, then he needed something to focus his attentions on.

For a moment, he thought that something could be Nicolò and allowed himself a smile, but the thought was gone as quickly as it came.

When they reached the villa, Andromache was waiting for them.

Well, not waiting, as such. She did not say anything as they approached her and the expression on her face was – neutral. She did not appear to care that they had gone, that they were bloodied and, in Copley’s case, bruised.

“Did you find any?” she asked, after they had all been standing there for a minute or so.

“Two, in the woods,” Yusuf replied. “What would you do, in my position?”

She looked at him – she knew he was not talking about the hunt they had just been on. Yusuf looked back. 

“I have never been in your position so I rightly cannot say.”

“What do you think would be worth it? How much solitude would make us even?”

“It has been a quarter of your life so far. Two thousand years would do it. I am not certain I would survive that long.” Yusuf sighed and Andromache tilted her head. “Why would you not simply do as Nicolò offered, and kill me?”

“Honestly?” Yusuf asked and she nodded. “I do not think you will learn anything from it. Those ten years were not defined by my deaths – that is why I did not care to keep track. They were defined by the fact that we were _all_ cut off. We were adrift, alone. And we had to survive.”

She made a sound like she understood. “I am sorry,” she said, finally, and it was not that it meant nothing to Yusuf, only that it did not change anything, it did not fix it. Copley put a hand on his shoulder.

“You do not wish to be alone, do you?” Yusuf asked.

Andromache shook her head. “I did my two thousand years alone,” she said quietly. “Before. Not like your time, of course, but I thought I was the only one out there like me. If it is what you all want, what you all need, then I will do it again.”

“If you learnt nothing from your own solitude last time,” Copley said, “Why would you learn now?”

She shrugged and it was not dismissive, not quite. “We forget. I do not remember my mother’s face. I do not remember the faces of my sisters. Time does not quite heal all wounds, not like we do, but it tries its best.”

“I will speak to them in the morning,” Yusuf said because he knew what had to be done but they needed time to prepare–

A shout came from behind them and there were men riding through the trees, toward the villa. Andromache stepped ahead of Yusuf and Copley – she did not have her labrys, Yusuf noticed, and he wondered why she had been walking around without it. 

“Did someone see you?” she asked.

“I…” Yusuf remembered a short flash of movement. “Perhaps.”

“Get the others. We will have to be inspected and then we will have to move on.”

***

Yusuf woke Nile while Copley rapped on Le Livre’s door. Both rose quickly – and when Yusuf stepped into the hall, he saw Nicolò was awake, too, dressed as though he had never gone to bed.

His eyes flicked over the tears in Yusuf’s clothes, the blood on his skin. His mouth flattened into a thin line.

“You went _hunting?”_ Nile hissed even as they all made their way to the stairs. 

“Yes,” Yusuf replied. “And I am fine; we just, obviously, brought a spot of bother back with us.”

Nile said something under her breath and, once they were at the front of the villa, he found that Andromache had the colonel and his men where she needed them.

“They are going to check us for bites,” she said. “Inside. Nile, with me.”

Nile hesitated, but followed, and a priest went with them. The colonel, dismounted, gestured for one of the men to lead the way.

Nicolò went up ahead, leading them into one of the sitting rooms. He was the first to start removing his clothes, at the colonel’s instruction, and Yusuf kept his eyes averted for far more than simply the sake of privacy.

He did not trust himself. He caught a glimpse or two of smooth, pale skin, but forced his eyes down to the rug, the edge of his boots.

Le Livre next, then he, then Copley – and his and Copley’s examinations took longer, of course, but that was to be expected. Yusuf did not feel Nicolò’s eyes on him and told himself it meant nothing.

By the time Andromache had bid the colonel farewell, Yusuf was tired again. None of them had a mark, of course, aside from the bruises Copley was sporting, but the soldiers had not cared much about those.

They all took a moment of respite in one of the sitting rooms, Nile pressed up along Yusuf’s left side, Copley in the armchair to his right – within arm’s reach. Nicolò and Le Livre were sitting as far from each other as they could, which was almost comical as they were sharing the settee opposite.

Andromache sat in the same chair she had occupied the night Yusuf had arrived here.

“What are we going to do?” she said. “Usually, I would suggest going somewhere, but I am not certain that is the wisest choice.”

Yusuf’s eyes drifted closed as Nicolò snapped something at her, as Le Livre interjected and Nile replied. They had to leave – they did – but, truly, Yusuf wished to go home, somewhere safe and warm and familiar.

He opened his eyes again, just as Nicolò told Andromache he would kill her again and said, “I would like to go to Tunis.”

They all stopped and stared at him. Copley laughed quietly.

“You want to go back?” Nile asked.

Yusuf shrugged. “I have not been there in a while,” he said. “I have heard the invasion is not so bad as here. And it is not terribly far.”

“Well, we– Of course we can go,” Nicolò said, “The four of us–”

It was charitable of him to include Copley, Yusuf thought, but he shook his head anyway. “All of us.”

“What?”

“I am _tired,”_ he said. “I have not been back with you all even a week; I have not been out of that situation for more than a month or two. If you wish for me to play any part in this decision, then I need rest. Tunis is safe enough for us to do that – but there are enough zombies that we can do some good, too.”

He did not say that he thought a trip involving people outside of the six of them might incline Nicolò and Nile to thinking a little more clearly about their own personal methods of getting revenge. 

Andromache and Le Livre said nothing, but Yusuf could read the agreement from them.

Nile broke first. “If you think so,” she said. “We will travel to Tunis, first.”

“Nicolò?” Yusuf asked.

“Sometimes, I feel I do not understand you at all,” he said quietly; he seemed to then realise where he was and shook his head. “Very well. Let us go there and then end this.”

Le Livre flinched at _end this_ but Yusuf paid him no mind. Instead, he turned to look at Copley – and Copley’s expression was unusual, pained.

Oh. 

“You are not coming, are you?”

Copley shook his head. “I was thinking about what I could do,” he said. “And I believe I will be of more use here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not going to remain young and able to fight forever, Yusuf,” Copley replied. “But I helped my community before London fell and helped our new one after. I think I can do something, here, that might help you.”

“Help?” Andromache asked.

Copley shrugged and he looked at Yusuf, then Nicolò, then back to Yusuf again. “You told me about Merrick. He is not going to be the only evil person you all ever meet. Besides, there are certainly specific situations where your skills may come in handy. Between Leyla and I, I am sure we can build something to help you.”

“Leyla?” Nile leant forwards. “You would get my sister involved?”

Copley appeared faintly embarrassed. “She gave me the idea, actually,” he said. “I believe she has thrived, organising the hunts she carries out in England. She had thought you could all stand to be more helpful, as well.”

To Yusuf’s complete surprise, Nicolò started laughing. “That girl,” he murmured, half to himself, and when he smiled at Yusuf, Yusuf smiled back.

“So you really will not come with us?” he asked Copley.

“No. But for this to work, I will need to hear from you. All of you. I know, Yusuf, you do not love _me_ enough to write a letter a day, but one a month or so should suffice.”

Yusuf was certain his face was _aflame._ He had not forgotten about the letters, not as such, but he had not told anyone about them yet – and now Nicolò was looking suspiciously between them again, his smile gone, and Copley did not seem fazed in the slightest.

“It is a good plan, Mr Copley,” Andromache said. She looked around at them all. “We will begin closing up the villa tomorrow. With any luck, we will be safe in Tunis by the month’s end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀👀👀 SO CLOSE
> 
> (also as if i'm starting kinktober in the morning as well thank god i'm off work for a bit now)


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf tries to confess his feelings. Nicolò receives some letters.

They found themselves on a ship bound for Tunis a week later. Copley had left as they had begun closing up the villa the next day; Andromache had told him to take a horse from the stables and he was intending to leave Italy, travel up into Bavaria. He had made Yusuf promise to write Leyla, at least until he had stable lodgings; from there, they would work to make sure he and the others were fighting as effectively as possible. Yusuf hoped the sense of purpose would help them all, but, secretly, especially Andromache and Le Livre, who would need _something_ to focus on, depending on what was decided.

Nile had barely left Yusuf’s side. With Copley gone, she appeared to think he needed her there from when he woke to when he fell asleep – and he loved her for it, of course, but it was becoming somewhat stifling.

Although he could, of course, understand why. They all had their own cabins on the ship, courtesy of Andromache, but she and Le Livre showed their faces rarely. When Yusuf had seen Andromache, she was in fact remarkably pale looking and he wondered if it was the thought of what lay ahead or the sea that frightened her the most.

Yusuf had not yet found an opportunity to speak to Nicolò. Whenever he did manage to indicate to Nile that he would be fine to sit alone, to walk alone, then Nicolò appeared to disappear too – a remarkable feat, considering the modest size of the ship.

Things came to a head on their third day aboard. Not long at all, and yet, now Yusuf had made the decision to tell Nicolò how he felt, no matter the consequences, he was surprised he had not had success in cornering the man sooner.

Nile had retired to her cabin for a post-lunch respite, which Yusuf had declared an indulgence, taking the half-hearted slap to his arm with good humour. Le Livre was on deck, for a change, doing his best to appear as though he was not watching Nile’s every move; when she left, he turned back to looking out at the waves. Yusuf considered speaking to him, but then decided against it. 

He only had a short window of opportunity, here. He had seen Nicolò with some of the other passengers – despite his reticent nature, he was a good enough listener and had been pulled into their conversation, their games. With any luck, he would still be there, for it was quite clear to Yusuf that Nicolò was doing his best to avoid him, though he could not quite fathom why that would be.

Sure enough, when he rounded the corner, he found Nicolò on the outskirts of a group of men, watching their game of dice with some fascination. Yusuf paused, simply to observe the furrow of his brow, the sharp intensity of his eyes. Even this closeness – several feet apart and Nicolò did not know he was there – had Yusuf’s heart beating faster. No childhood infatuation, no teen romance had felt anything close to this.

Nicolò did look up, then, as though he heard Yusuf’s thoughts, and when their eyes met, the ship fell away around them. Yusuf struggled to draw breath. Nicolò looked upon him like a starving man, like Yusuf was the only person he could see.

Then he appeared to catch himself and moved to withdraw.

Yusuf was faster. He rounded the table and fell into step beside Nicolò, matching him even as his pace quickened.

He could be coy about it, of course – but that had got them absolutely nowhere so far.

Instead, he stopped. When Nicolò stopped beside him, he smiled.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked and Nicolò looked guilty before he schooled his features to innocence.

“I am n–”

“You can just tell me,” Yusuf said. “Please do not lie.”

Nicolò flushed, faintly, but now he appeared inclined to say nothing at all, which did complicate things somewhat.

Though, he supposed, Nicolò had confessed his feelings and Yusuf had attacked him, which felt unlikely here, so he was perhaps still at an advantage.

“You know, I only have one regret from my life before I died,” he said and Nicolò shifted from foot to foot. 

Yusuf waited. Curiosity won out when Nicolò swallowed and said, “What was the regret?”

“My final words to you. At the time, I was happy to obey your wishes because I believed I would, well, _die._ As soon as I woke, I knew I would see you again and I regretted that you were not certain in your knowledge of how I feel about you.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said, hardly louder than a breath and, feeling bold, Yusuf stepped closer. 

They were almost of a height, their frames matched, and when Nicolò took a step back and bumped into wood, his eyes widened.

“Do you know what I wished to say to you?”

Nicolò squeezed his eyes shut, nodded, and then opened them again. “Please,” he said, “Do not.”

Hurt settled in Yusuf’s stomach. He wanted to leave but remained in place; he would hear the end of this, one way or another.

“Why not? Do you think my words false?”

“No. You believe them, I know that.”

Ah. Yusuf did not like that. “But you do not.”

Nicolò opened and closed his mouth, cast his gaze about wildly and, even when he spoke again, he was staring just past Yusuf’s right ear. 

“It is not that I do not, it is, simply… We have time, Yusuf, so much of it, and you may change your mind, things may change and I do not believe I could survive losing you. Not again.”

_Oh._ Oh, Yusuf certainly had not loved anyone more than he loved this most precious man – a man who could cut through a horde of zombies without flinching, who could destroy another with his words but, ultimately, believed that Yusuf would ruin him in time. He did not take offence at the sentiment, either. It was not about him at its heart. It was about how Nicolò saw himself, his place in the world; Yusuf was not sure if it was his initial death, his abandonment, but he saw Yusuf as being out of reach, which was, well…

Possibly the most ludicrous thing Yusuf had ever heard.

He leant in, planting a hand on either side of Nicolò’s shoulders and Nicolò was looking at him now, his breath coming fast. “Before I say to you the words I _need_ to say, words you need to hear, then I have to know that you believe me. But I am lucky – I brought the proof of it with me and will have it sent to your cabin. It is up to you what you wish to do, after that.”

Nicolò’s eyes had gone hazy. “Proof?”

Yusuf smiled. When Nicolò looked down at his mouth, he fought the desire to lean in closer; he had to give Nicolò space to process all this – and he _wanted_ Nicolò to go into the evening with a clear head.

Well, mostly.

Yusuf moved one hand, reaching to cradle Nicolò’s jaw. He skimmed his thumb over Nicolò’s bottom lip and revelled in the strangled sound he emitted.

“Proof,” Yusuf agreed and let go, stepped back. “Just some light night-time reading, habibi. Come and find me when you are ready.”

It took all his strength to walk away but he could not ignore the dark, satisfied feeling at the final picture Nicolò had provided, still pressed against the wall, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, breath coming short and fast.

If the proof did not work, then Yusuf could wait. He would not enjoy it, much, but they were all correct – he most certainly had the time.

***

After his conversation with Yusuf, Nicolò confined himself to his cabin. He had thought he had been more masterful in his avoidance of Yusuf – because it was difficult to see him, be near him, without wishing to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

He did still blame Andromache and Sebastien, of course, but he was as old as they were – he should have known the dreams for what they were, especially once he was through the initial wave of grief. He should have asked Nile. He should have brought Yusuf’s body back with him in the first place.

He should have…

A knock at his cabin door had Nicolò looking up; he was in his shirtsleeves, sitting on his bed, and his stomach flipped over, although he was almost certain it would not be Yusuf standing on the other side. He approached the door slowly, all the same. 

Proof, Yusuf had said. What proof could there be? And of what, precisely?

He opened the door and one of the crew members was standing there, a wooden box in his hands. He handed it over with a gruff salutation and Nicolò simply nodded in response, closing the door once the man had gone.

After placing the box on his bed, Nicolò sat and stared at it. Whatever was inside, he almost did not wish to open it. He knew it would be nothing dangerous, nothing awful – and yet, it had the potential to destroy him completely.

Nicolò took a breath and opened the box.

At first, he did not believe what he was seeing. Stacks of paper, some tied together, some not. There was a journal or two in there, as well, and all of a sudden, he understood.

_This_ was ten years of Yusuf’s life. Ten years of his thoughts, ten years of what had happened to him and he had gifted them to Nicolò because…

Nicolò reached out with trembling hands and took the topmost sheet of paper. It was hastily written, folded in half, and, God, when he opened it, he sobbed.

He had gifted them to Nicolò because they were _for_ Nicolò.

_Nicolò, azizi,_

_This is perhaps the final missive I will write to you – for we are free. Hingham Bridge has been rebuilt and we have been inspected, cleared and, I admit to wishing to visit Hertfordshire first, as I desire to know what has become of my family, but after that…_

_I am coming for you._

_What I have seen of your life these last ten years has been a privilege and only made me more certain of my feelings for you – and I do not know when I will give you this letter, as right now I am also certain you have no idea I am alive. I hope our initial reunion goes well. I want to kiss you again, or hold you, or simply follow you to the very ends of the earth._

_Hobi twahachtek. I have missed you so much._

_I will see you soon._

_Forever yours,_

_Yusuf._

Tears had gathered in the corners of Nicolò’s eyes and he did not know whether he wanted to laugh or cry at the reminder of their reunion – that could not have possibly gone how Yusuf had imagined it would – but he put the letter aside and pulled out one of the journals.

These were not only letters, stray thoughts; there were also sketches within – delicately rendered close ups of Nicolò’s eyes, his nose, his mouth ( _ya mamou ‘ineya_ sprawled to one side) – one of him by moonlight, staring pensively out of a window ( _mahlaha Nicolò wujha kiima lsamra_ ), one of him in the heat of battle, mouth open on a snarl ( _inti dima fi bali_ ). 

Yusuf had written what he remembered next to each one, alongside his own sentiments, primarily in Arabic, and Nicolò realised these were images from his dreams, almost as though Yusuf had shared in their journey out of England, across Europe. 

He scanned each page desperately, soaking up loving words, the kindest remarks and mixed in, always, was patient understanding that Nicolò blamed himself but should not, could not, do that forever.

Yusuf had written about more than just the two of them, of course, and as evening turned into night, Nicolò became acquainted with Miss Lucas – _she has a spine of steel, Nicolò, she rivals any of my sisters_ – and felt faintly guilty for not getting to know Mr Copley better – _I do not believe I would have survived so well without him_ – and grew to hate Keane – _I felt less guilty than I do slaying zombies and I fear what that says about me but, also, am certain it was the right thing to do._

Eventually, Nicolò lifted his head, eyes stinging from reading and crying and he had never felt so overwhelmed in his life but it was good, so _good_ because Yusuf had taken it all out of his hands; he had not known he was doing it at the time but he had provided Nicolò with an insight he had never had into another person, not even Andromache or Sebastien or, God rest her, Quynh – and Nicolò could not argue with _ten years’_ worth of evidence, could he?

He also realised, quickly, he could not read them all. Not if he wished to see Yusuf tonight, and he _did,_ his whole body thrumming at the thought of setting eyes on his face, watching his smile grow and eyes crinkle and maybe even…

Nicolò flushed and closed the journal, but when he moved it aside, a small, folded piece of paper fell from between the pages.

He unfolded it carefully, scanned the first line and felt all the blood rush to his face. 

_Nicolò,_

_Na’chsik. There is no other way to say it and I have written it often enough, now. I adore you. You are more to me than I can dream – although I dream of you almost every night. _

_I do not think my dream of you tonight was one of those that connects us; it was too coherent, too clearly my deepest desires at work. And yet, if it was… Then I have been blessed to see it._

_Perhaps this is one of the letters I will never show you. But I cannot stop thinking of what I just witnessed, what I felt – your hands, so sure and strong, pressing bruises into my hips as you held me down. I felt your lips on mine once, in life, but tonight they were everywhere, and oh! I have no idea what it would be like to lay with you proper but that single-minded focus of yours is something it heats my blood to consider._

_Ya Allah, I doubt I will ever share this letter with you, in truth. I am outside now; I hope the cool night air will calm me, for I woke to the pounding of my own heart, to the taste of your skin on my tongue, and upon waking, I was at once both astonishingly aroused and incredibly disappointed._

_You see, it is not enough that I adore you, Nicolò, that I love you beyond all measure or reason. I desire you, also. Covet you, even. And the fact of it is, that has always been true – our first meetings were so fraught because I desired you and I wished to fight it and I do not think I have ever been such a fool._

_I will remain out here a while longer, still. Perhaps this vision I have had of our future will never come to fruition. I think I would not mind, if that were the case, so long as I still had a chance to know you._

_But I think of our kiss and I wonder if you ever felt it too._

_The stars are bright tonight, Nicolò; I hope you take a moment to enjoy them. Koul nejma li techrel fi sma boussa lik._

_Ti amo, Nicolò._

_Yusuf._

Nicolò set the letter aside, his heart pounding. If he did not move now, he would not move at all, and so he surged to his feet, uncaring for his state of dress as he left his cabin and made his way up to the main deck. 

He did not know that Yusuf would be up here, but he knew he had been loathed to spend time in his cabin; he was about when Nicolò arose in the morning and he was, too, when they all retired at night.

There were a few crew members about, casting him glances as he rushed by, but he had seen Yusuf, at the bow of the ship, and so he paid them no mind. Yusuf turned at his approach and whatever he saw on Nicolò’s face made him smile.

Nicolò stopped just short of touching him. Even with the fraction of the letters he had read, he felt as though they were meeting for the first time, while having known each other for years.

“Do you believe me, now?” Yusuf asked.

“Yes,” Nicolò said. His voice came out rough; he was thinking of all of the letters, but the last one in particular, he could not deny, had resonated with him.

“Hmm,” Yusuf replied, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper. “I got the idea from you, you know. Nothing in my life has been as convincing as the letter you sent me.”

He unfolded it and Nicolò recognised his own handwriting, and when Yusuf read, “I cannot fix the hour or the spot or the look or the words,” Nicolò made a plaintive noise in the back of his throat.

He was not sure what he wanted, only that he wanted to be closer than this, and in seven hundred years he had not been as lost for words as he was now, unable to articulate even a simple desire.

Yusuf’s eyes were dark as he met Nicolò’s gaze and Nicolò saw the moment he made his decision, realised this split-second was what would define them – to each other, to everyone around them – for the rest of their lives, for there was no possible future where he would willingly give this man up.

“Kiss me,” Yusuf said and Nicolò reached for him. 

They collided, clumsy at first, but then Yusuf curled his hand around the back of Nicolò’s neck and Nicolò clutched at Yusuf’s waist and it was _perfect._ Yusuf pulled back slightly, nipped at his mouth, and Nicolò opened to him willingly, groaned at the slide of Yusuf’s tongue alongside his own.

They parted to breathe, and then again only when Yusuf had Nicolò pressed back against the bow. His legs were parted and they were pressed against each other from thigh to shoulder; Yusuf’s lips were swollen, spit-slick and Nicolò could not help himself when he kissed him again, excited to learn what he liked, delirious in the fact that he could have this.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said into the space between them a few minutes later. His eyes were still closed. Nicolò’s fingers curled through Yusuf’s beard and he realised he had not said how much he liked it and then he thought about how it would feel against his skin – he could already feel the rawness around his mouth – and his hips rolled forward of their own volition.

Yusuf groaned, one hand clutching Nicolò’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. _“Nicolò,”_ he said again, and his eyes were open now, his pupils wide enough to almost swallow all the colour of his irises. “I have to tell you, Nicolò…”

“Tell me what?” Nicolò asked and Yusuf actually appeared shy for a moment, which was enough to have Nicolò rubbing a hand across his back.

“I love you,” he said, so simply, the words so clear, and Nicolò took a deep, shuddering breath.

“And I you,” he replied. Yusuf laughed, a delighted peal that warmed Nicolò to his very core. He pressed their foreheads together and it was enough, for a moment, to merely bask in this knowledge, that they did love one another, that it was a deep enough love to have survived all they had been through, to be almost certain it would survive, too, anything they might face.

Yusuf pressed a kiss to Nicolò’s jaw, scraping his teeth very lightly, and while everything was perfect, enough, Nicolò knew what he wanted – what they both did. He moaned, very quietly, and Yusuf let out a shaky breath.

“I have just one more question,” he said, and he had not stopped touching Nicolò so Nicolò was not certain how he was expected to have the wherewithal to answer.

“What is that?”

“Is it your cabin, that is closer, or is it mine?”

Nicolò groaned, kissed him again, so forwardly that Yusuf let out a pleased little sound, and then took his hand.

“I believe it is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for putting up with nearly 95k before we really earnt that e for ~~erotic~~ explicit tag. poor nico got there in the end!! 90% fluff from here on out i promise!!!
> 
> oh and thank you specifically to the person who put together [this tumblr post](https://hottopicmonk.tumblr.com/post/630164029175889920/modern-derja-vocabulary-derja-is-the-tunisian), thereby solving a lot of my problems with finding tunisian arabic sources 🥰


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf and Nicolò demonstrate their love for one another.

Yusuf kept his hands to himself as they crossed the deck, but when Nicolò entwined their fingers, he fought the urge to kiss him again. 

No. If he waited, then surely he would have the chance to hear more of those noises Nicolò made – though it felt like forever before Nicolò was pushing him into the cabin ahead of him. He closed the door behind them and Yusuf turned, pressed Nicolò back against the wood.

They were still holding hands. Nicolò’s eyes were blown with desire and Yusuf could not decide what he wished to do with that, so instead he rested their foreheads together, closed his eyes. He would not have lasted another day not knowing, he decided; would certainly never have been able to spend years together yet so distant.

“Yusuf, cuore mio,” Nicolò murmured and his breath was hot against Yusuf’s face. “May I touch you, _please…”_

Yusuf kissed him. Nicolò startled, but his free hand grabbed at Yusuf’s waist and Yusuf stroked along his jaw, down his throat, even as he pushed one leg between Nicolò’s. 

He considered himself a virgin, insomuch as he had never had anyone inside him, or been inside another. It did not mean he had been celibate; he remembered long summers, clumsy hands, enthusiastic mouths– He had not wanted any of that from anyone else the moment he had first set eyes on Nicolò and knew, now, that whatever this man wanted, Yusuf would endeavour to give it to him.

Nicolò moaned when Yusuf tensed his thigh and tore his mouth away. Yusuf expected, of course, that Nicolò had far more experience than he did – but he appeared now as though he had never been touched before, face flushed, eyes wide, and Yusuf echoed the sentiment. 

“What do you want?” Yusuf murmured. Heat flashed through him when Nicolò blinked once, twice, before he appeared to understand the question. He had rucked up Yusuf’s tunic at the back, had his hand on bare skin, and Yusuf could feel every point of contact between them as keenly as he had felt any blade.

“All of you,” Nicolò said, the admission so honest that it punched all the breath from Yusuf’s lungs. Perhaps he should be frightened, wary – but it was nothing more than he wished to give.

Instead, he kissed Nicolò again, relinquishing his grip on Nicolò’s hand so that he could hold his head in place and truly devour him. Nicolò whimpered when Yusuf sucked on his bottom lip, when he pressed against the hinge of his jaw, and when Yusuf pulled back and saw the redness around Nicolò’s mouth, the way his lips were so plush and swollen, he rocked against him.

They were both hard, Nicolò’s pantaloons and Yusuf’s breeches doing nothing to hide their condition, but for a moment, that was a secondary need compared to the ache in Yusuf’s chest. He wished to keep Nicolò like this, here, forever – a place where he need not feel guilty, or worry, or be angry. A place where they were together and the outside world could not encroach.

Nicolò smiled at him, tugged gently on his beard, which made Yusuf smile in turn, and then leant forward. “Bed,” he said against Yusuf’s lips and Yusuf nodded.

He turned, and then stopped. He knew Nicolò had not read everything he had given him, of course; still, there were a _lot_ of loose papers strewn across the bed, one of the journals tucked away to the side. Yusuf approached it, saw the one resting atop the rest, as though thrown there haphazardly, and his smile widened as he plucked it from the pile.

“Ah,” he said and Nicolò’s hand rested on his lower back as he came up behind him. “I thought I had lost this one.”

Nicolò hid his face in the back of Yusuf’s neck. “I am sorry for reading it, if you did not wish me to.”

“I gave you all of these to read!”

“Yes, but in it, you said–”

Yusuf laughed and turned in his arms. “Nicolò, I wrote this one after… two years, I think. I became much more relaxed about the whole thing after that. There is an entire collection in there, somewhere, where I wax poetic about how desperately I wish to feel your thighs around my waist.”

Nicolò let out a broken sound and kissed him again; Yusuf laughed into it, and when Nicolò pushed him back onto the bed, he went willingly. They pushed the letters, the books, the box to the floor and Yusuf wrapped his legs around Nicolò’s hips when Nicolò leant over him, pressing kisses to the hollow of his throat.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said, voice shaking, and Yusuf sucked a mark on his skin that vanished within seconds. Once the bed was clear, paper scattered on the floor around them, Yusuf pulled Nicolò’s face down to meet his, rolling them in the middle of the kiss so that Nicolò was spread out beneath him. 

He sat up so that he could properly admire his new lover, eyes following the flush that spread from Nicolò’s neck, beneath his shirt; he sucked in a breath when he saw the bulge in Nicolò’s pantaloons and, feeling daring, reached down and squeezed experimentally.

Nicolò whined. “Yusuf, amore mio, I will let you have me any way you wish but I really would prefer us to be less clothed for this first round.”

Yusuf swallowed, nodded, and then he was on his feet again, struggling to remove his boots with fingers that had gone clumsy. Nicolò chuckled from the bed – not at all unkindly – and removed his own boots, but when he reached for his shirt, Yusuf stopped his hands.

“First round?” he asked, sliding the fabric from Nicolò’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Nicolò replied. He reached for the hem of Yusuf’s shirt in turn and Yusuf helped him get it off. Nicolò’s eyes travelled the length of his torso and Yusuf had never been particularly vain when it came to his looks, but he felt the urge to preen under Nicolò’s intense gaze.

“Nicolò?” he asked and Nicolò smiled, flushing faintly as he met Yusuf’s gaze.

“Potrei guardarti tutto il giorno,” he said and Yusuf felt his face heat. 

“First round,” he prompted, again. “I hate to be the one to mention it but despite our ongoing condition, I am no longer a teenager.”

Nicolò laughed at that, delighted, and stroked down Yusuf’s chest. Goosebumps trailed in his wake. “Our _ongoing condition,_ as you so eloquently put it, means that we do not require so much… rest, as we might otherwise.” He bit his lip and Yusuf sucked in a breath.

Well. That was most certainly… something.

Nicolò reached for Yusuf’s breeches, fingers dipping beneath the waistband and stroking at soft, sensitive skin. “Tell me what you desire,” he said and Yusuf’s knees went weak.

“You,” he said but he understood, too, that Nicolò wanted him to be somewhat more specific than that. “I want to _see_ you.”

Nicolò nodded and then his hands were back as his own waist, as he set to removing his pantaloons. Yusuf worked at his breeches and their gazes met, once, both of them dissolving into helpless giggles. Nicolò hooked his leg around Yusuf’s knee, pulling him closer, and then tugged at the waist of Yusuf’s breeches. 

“May I?”

Yusuf’s mouth had gone dry. He nodded.

Nicolò flashed him a smile and then he was pulling Yusuf’s breeches down, and when they pooled on the floor, Yusuf stepped out of them. For a moment, Nicolò stared at him, _all_ of him and something about that just made Yusuf harder, pre-come beading at the head of his cock. Nicolò licked his lips and Yusuf looked up at the ceiling; he wanted _everything_ right now and he very much needed to get his priorities in order.

“Up,” he said to Nicolò, fingers skating over his shoulders and Nicolò stood and lifted each leg in turn as Yusuf removed his pantaloons. Yusuf ran his fingers down the back of Nicolò’s thigh, behind his knee, and when Nicolò startled, laughed, he smiled.

“Sensitive?”

“Ticklish,” Nicolò said. He hauled Yusuf up and they kissed again, but now there was the added gloriousness of skin on skin, and Yusuf rutted against Nicolò’s stomach as Nicolò bit down his throat. The sting of each bite sent shocks of pleasure to his cock and it was soothed so quickly, leaving only the reminder of pain in its place.

“How do you want me to touch you?” Nicolò asked and his voice was rough, his accent thicker; Yusuf kissed him again because how was he supposed to do anything else?

“Your hand,” he said against Nicolò’s lips and then Nicolò’s fingers wrapped around him, and his mind stuttered to a halt. 

Nicolò kissed him again, collecting Yusuf’s pre-come before he stroked him again and his hand was slick and hot and better than anything Yusuf had ever experienced before, he was certain. He let out a low groan when Nicolò tightened his grip, mouthing at Nicolò’s throat, and it took him longer than he liked to reach for Nicolò in turn.

He was gratified by the way Nicolò’s breath hitched when Yusuf took him in hand and Yusuf sucked marks down his neck, rubbed his beard against sensitive skin, even as Nicolò moved his hand a little faster, his grip just as tight as Yusuf liked it. His orgasm was approaching, pleasure curling down his spine and he wanted nothing more than to exist in this one moment forever.

Yusuf knew he was about to come, every muscle in his body tensing, but he wanted Nicolò there with him and so he dipped his head, bit down gently on Nicolò’s earlobe and murmured, “Ti amo.”

The effect was immediate; Nicolò groaned and spilled over Yusuf’s fist, his free hand pressing bruises into his shoulder. Yusuf thrust his hips forward once more and finally let go. Pleasure rushed through him, warmth and satisfaction, and he panted against Nicolò’s shoulder, let his tongue flick out to lick salt from his skin.

They stood there for a while, Nicolò curling his arms around Yusuf’s back, until they both started to shiver. Yusuf lifted his head and Nicolò pushed his curls back from his face.

“Sei bellissimo,” he sighed. Yusuf pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Inti hobb hayati.” 

Nicolò flushed but manoeuvred them onto the bed, under the blanket, and Yusuf’s heartrate had settled once they were lying there, looking at one another. How could he ever have thought this man aloof, reserved, when love shone from his eyes and he could not stop his fingers roaming over Yusuf’s skin? 

“What are you thinking of, hayati?” Nicolò asked and the term of endearment sent a little thrill through Yusuf.

“You. When we first met, I would never have imagined ending up here.”

Nicolò pulled a face. “I was terribly rude to you, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” Yusuf said but he smiled, let his thumb stroke over Nicolò’s hip, dangerously close to the crease of his thigh. “But I was not any better.”

“You had the measure of me first, I think,” Nicolò replied. “When you asked me if I had died for something I believed in.”

“Hmm?”

“I did not.” 

Yusuf flattened his hand, let his palm rest there. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It can wait. It has been seven hundred years, after all.”

He ran his fingers through Yusuf’s beard again, pressed his thumb against his bottom lip and when Yusuf opened his mouth, tongue flicking out to taste skin, Nicolò groaned and closed his eyes.

“I fear my heart cannot take the strain, when you do things like that,” he said and Yusuf grinned.

“Round two?” he asked, the picture of innocence, even as he allowed his fingers to trail down and explore Nicolò’s stirring interest. “I want you inside of me.”

Nicolò surged forward to kiss him, pressing him back into the pillows – then, all of a sudden, he lifted his head and cursed.

Yusuf caught his breath – Nicolò had been doing quite a thorough job, after all – and then lifted his head in turn. “What is it?”

“I truly never thought to prepare for this,” Nicolò said and he looked terribly worried, which was not an expression Yusuf particularly wished to see on him in bed. “I have nothing we can use to ease the way.”

Oh, of course. Yusuf had never done it before but he did at least understand the logistics of the whole thing. “Can we not simply…” There had to be a way it could work; there was not a chance that all the boys he had known in his youth had had supplies on hand.

“I will not hurt you, Yusuf,” Nicolò said and he was so deadly serious it made Yusuf’s heart race. “If you wanted to, the other way...” 

Yusuf rolled his eyes. “As if _I_ wish to hurt _you,”_ he replied. “We can wait. I have a better idea, besides.” He urged Nicolò onto his back and kissed him before he could ask what Yusuf had in mind. Slowly, he trailed his lips down Nicolò’s jaw, his throat, and when he licked over Nicolò’s left nipple, Nicolò gasped and arched against him.

Yusuf alternated his attention between them, pinching one because it made Nicolò let out quiet, mewling sounds, and clutch at the sheets, licking over the other and then blowing gently, just to see the skin pebble. 

Still, he had a final goal in mind, and dropped kisses to Nicolò’s skin as he moved ever lower, flicking his tongue out over an old scar, sucking marks where he wanted to see Nicolò redden beneath his ministrations.

When he licked along Nicolò’s inner thigh, Nicolò gasped. “Yusuf, you–”

Yusuf lifted his head and winked; Nicolò flushed. “I am somewhat out of practice,” he said, “But I was fairly skilled at this, once upon a time.” 

Nicolò let out a strangled noise and Yusuf grinned before he licked up the length of his cock. 

At Nicolò’s answering cry, Yusuf hoped the person in the next cabin was still sleeping soundly and then set to work. It had, of course, been a long time since he had last done this, but Nicolò was so responsive that he fell into a rhythm quickly, swallowing down as much as he could without gagging, using his hand to make up for the rest. He could taste Nicolò, salt and skin and the very essence of him; he nosed at the soft skin above his groin, when he finally took him deeper, and above him Nicolò whined and moaned, letting loose a string of curses and praise and endearments that had Yusuf pushing his hips down against the mattress beneath them.

He ran his fingernails down Nicolò’s thighs and Nicolò’s hips bucked of their own accord. Nicolò let out an aborted noise, petting at Yusuf’s curls as he murmured his apologies; Yusuf had tears in his eyes and his throat felt raw but he wanted nothing more than to feel that again.

He lifted his head and let Nicolò’s cock fall from his mouth, though he still stroked him, albeit slowly.

“Do that again,” he said, the command curling around his words and Nicolò did not even attempt to protest.

Yusuf grinned, licked his lips, and took all of Nicolò this time. He breathed in the scent of him, looked up and, when their eyes met, he waited.

He wanted Nicolò to lose control, just a little, to understand that this, like everything between them, was a sharing of equals. He could not deny that not being quite prepared was a more than good enough reason to hold off on other activities, but he knew, already, that there would be times when he would have to keep Nicolò’s protective nature in check.

He expected, of course, that Nicolò was coming to much the same conclusion about him.

Nicolò’s fingers tightened in his curls – and, _oh,_ that sent a feeling skidding down his spine – and he thrust his hips up once, almost experimentally. Yusuf groaned, allowed his mouth to hang open further, and Nicolò tried it again. He met no resistance and Yusuf found, quickly, that the more appreciative noises he made, the more he stroked at Nicolò’s thighs, the faster and deeper he went.

He rolled his own hips against the mattress – he wanted Nicolò to touch him but they had all the time in the world for that – and when Nicolò finally thrust up hard, spilling down Yusuf’s throat, Yusuf came with a moan, not feeling even a little guilty at the mess he had made on the sheets.

He swallowed all he could and then licked Nicolò’s cock clean. Nicolò hissed, over-sensitive, and hauled him up, and Yusuf worried for a second he might not like the taste of himself, but he pushed Yusuf back into the pillows again and plundered his mouth.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf murmured and Nicolò reached down, brows knitting together when he realised Yusuf was not hard.

“You…”

Yusuf bit his lip, smiled. “I, uh, did not need assistance for that one,” he said and Nicolò laughed before he kissed Yusuf thoroughly again.

By mutual – but silent – agreement, they settled after that. Yusuf knew they would have to change the sheets come morning, but he was tired, and as he wrapped his arm around Nicolò’s waist, he realised he had never been happier.

He could be happier still and something fluttered in his stomach as the idea came to him.

“Nicolò,” he murmured against his lover’s shoulder. “I lied to you.”

Nicolò turned, but he did not seem unduly concerned and Yusuf loved him for it.

“When?”

“When I said you were the last man on earth I would ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

Nicolò snorted. “It hardly counts as a lie if you believed it at the time.”

“Still. It needs correcting.”

“If this is your way of doing that, I more than believe the hurt has been soothed.”

“Sposami,” Yusuf said and Nicolò’s expression froze. 

Tears crept into his eyes and Yusuf worried, just for a second, that he had made a misstep – but then Nicolò pulled him forward, crushed him against his chest. They kissed and Nicolò laughed into it, Yusuf hitched his leg over Nicolò’s hip and had there ever been a moment more perfect than this?

“Is that your answer?” he asked when they parted and Nicolò laughed.

“Of course I will, Yusuf,” he said. “Hobi, ma’chouws, of course I will marry you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🖤🖤🖤 one more chapter, y'all!
> 
> also lmao i wasn't going to use the word cock at first quite so much but we risked leaping feet first into purple prose territory so hopefully the voice still works this chapter!


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf and Nicolò tell Nile of their engagement. Nile decides what to do with Andromache and Sebastien.

Nicolò was not certain of the time when he woke. Yusuf’s arm was flung around his middle, warm and comforting, and he had his nose tucked into the back of Nicolò’s neck.

A smile came to his lips, unbidden. For the first time in his long life – and despite the question of Andromache and Sebastien that still lingered at the back of his mind – he was, truly, content.

Better: he was _happy._ It lightened every inch of him, his skin singing where he and Yusuf were pressed together and he turned to bury his face in the pillow, laughing to himself.

Behind him, Yusuf stirred. He rubbed his face against Nicolò’s skin, his arm tightening for a moment before he appeared to realise where he was.

“Did I miss something funny?” he asked, voice rough from sleep and Nicolò was at once, both astonished and utterly unsurprised to find how much he wanted him again.

“Nothing funny, hayati,” Nicolò murmured. He turned so that they were face-to-face. Yusuf was, adorably, still blinking sleep from his eyes, his curls in disarray, but he smiled lopsidedly when Nicolò met his gaze. “I am just happy that you are here.”

Yusuf hummed in response, then leant in for a kiss. It was slow, gentle, his hand still a firm pressure on Nicolò’s lower back. Their legs tangled together and Nicolò deepened the kiss, until he had Yusuf gasping.

When they parted, Yusuf ran his fingers over Nicolò’s chin. “I should shave,” he murmured but Nicolò remembered the night before and shook his head, face heating. 

“Definitely not.” 

Yusuf laughed and his hands were most certainly wandering with more intent now; light was bleeding through the small window of their cabin and his eyes traced Nicolò’s form greedily. 

“I did ask you to marry me, did I not?”

Nicolò smiled. “You did.”

“And you said yes?”

“I did.”

“Good.”

Yusuf kissed him again, pressing him backwards and Nicolò went willingly, parting his legs so that Yusuf could settle between them. He groaned when Yusuf kissed down his jaw, sucked a mark in the hollow of his throat, and when he clutched at Yusuf’s shoulders, Yusuf lifted his head.

His grin was _filthy_ and Nicolò whined when Yusuf grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head. Pinned them with _one_ hand, meaning he had one free but Nicolò did not and Nicolò had never tried this before but he found he very much liked it.

“Let me,” Yusuf said, raining kisses down anywhere he could reach. 

“Of course,” Nicolò said, though that did not stop him from straining against Yusuf’s hold, just a test. Yusuf grinned in response, shifting Nicolò’s legs wider with his knees and his grip did not slacken, not even by a fraction. Nicolò’s eyes fluttered shut. They did not only have _this,_ of course; he had spent the time since Yusuf’s return avoiding him – they had not trained together, they had not shared much more conversation and he had all the time in the world to learn everything he could about this wonderful, fascinating man…

Yusuf took hold of Nicolò’s cock and Nicolò opened his eyes again. “Where are you going, tesoro mio?” Yusuf asked.

“Thinking of you,” Nicolò replied. Yusuf started stroking him slowly. “Yusuf, please…”

“We could stay in here all day,” Yusuf said, and his voice was steady but his eyes gave away his urgency. “There are plenty of things we have yet to try.”

He twisted his wrist and Nicolò moaned. “We should… it would be rude to hole up in here all _day.”_

Yusuf nodded. “So considerate, my Nicolò. Alright, how about this? We will have our fun now and then later we will move all of my things to your cabin–”

 _“Our_ cabin,” Nicolò managed and Yusuf paused, only for a moment, before he stroked Nicolò faster.

“Our cabin,” Yusuf agreed. “And then we can try just about anything you have ever fantasised of.”

Nicolò strained upwards, begging for a kiss, and Yusuf did not hesitate to oblige. “We have time,” Nicolò said, “We do not have to try it all now…”

“Hmm, but I _want_ to,” Yusuf said and his voice was so dark that Nicolò felt himself approaching the edge already. Yusuf was hard too, his cock leaking on Nicolò’s thigh and Nicolò shifted his hips.

“Both of us,” he said. “Touch us both.”

It took a second of shifting around, but then Yusuf had them both in his strong grip and Nicolò moaned at the press of them together. Yusuf stroked them hard, fast, and it was mere minutes before Nicolò was begging him for a kiss; they breathed into each other’s mouths as they came, one after the other.

After, Yusuf let go of Nicolò’s wrists, collapsing atop him. He rested his head on Nicolò’s chest and Nicolò stroked through Yusuf’s curls.

“We should leave, at some point.”

Yusuf pressed at kiss to his sternum. “At some point,” he agreed.

***

At some point ended up being an hour or so later – they both washed and dressed in Nicolò’s cabin but then Nicolò trailed Yusuf to his own to move his things so that they could share. It took another hour, a few more heated kisses that Yusuf did his best to prevent turning into something more, before they emerged onto the deck.

Nile was already there, reading a book, and she did not look up until Yusuf dropped onto the seat beside her. She looked to him, then Nicolò, and the grin that crossed her face when she saw the way they were sitting: too close, Nicolò’s hand resting on Yusuf’s thigh, was as wide as any Yusuf had ever seen.

“Oh, finally!” she exclaimed and pushed her book aside before she embraced Yusuf. Nicolò was next and perhaps her eyes were shining a little too brightly but she appeared happy enough for them.

“Well, at least you have plenty of time to gloat at us about how long it has all taken,” Yusuf said and Nile laughed, the first real, unrestrained laugh he had managed to provoke from her since his return. 

“So, when is the wedding?” she said, and he knew she was teasing – so did Nicolò, from the look he gave Yusuf – but he could not resist.

“Well, we will wait until we arrive in Tunis, of course,” Yusuf said. “But I would think not that long after.”

Nile’s eyes widened. “You… you _are_ getting married?”

“Of course,” Nicolò said. “It is not as though I have never made my intentions regarding that clear.”

And Yusuf would spend as long as necessary redeeming himself for that; although, he did still not regret all of it – Nicolò had been terrifically rude, after all.

As if reading his thoughts, Nicolò smiled and Yusuf swung his legs up into his lap. His fiancé did not even blink; he rested one hand over Yusuf’s shins. 

“Did you propose again?” Nile asked Nicolò.

“Not this time,” Nicolò said and Yusuf’s heart swelled with love from just the way Nicolò looked at him, like a perfect, precious thing.

Nile peppered them with questions – some of which Yusuf simply refused to answer, because she did not, of course, need _all_ the answers – and when Andromache and Le Livre appeared on deck, Yusuf still had his legs over Nicolò’s lap, his head resting on Nile’s shoulder, and for a moment it was as though the last ten years had never really happened.

“We need to talk,” Andromache said, no preamble at all, and Yusuf did not sit up. Instead, he gestured at other chairs on deck. The three of them had been given a wide berth and Yusuf was glad of it; he almost wished Andromache and Le Livre had given them that same room, too.

“What do we need to talk about?” Nicolò asked. His grip on Yusuf’s legs had tightened and Yusuf rubbed his thumb over the back of Nicolò’s hand, because he could, now.

“You could be sitting more appropriately,” Le Livre said, sitting heavily on his seat, and Nicolò opened his mouth, a sharp retort no doubt on his tongue, but Yusuf simply laughed.

When Nicolò turned to look at him, he pulled him in by the back of his neck, sitting up, and kissed him as thoroughly as he could manage. After everything they had been through to reach this point, he would have _no one_ – especially a man who had played such a key role in all the time they had spent apart – judging this. He sucked on Nicolò’s bottom lip, just the way he had discovered Nicolò liked and was gratified when Nicolò moaned, albeit quietly.

They parted and Nicolò looked at him as though there was no one else in the world. It was a powerful, heady feeling and one Yusuf could get all too used to.

“Did you have anything else you wished to say?” Yusuf asked Le Livre. He shook his head and Yusuf looked at Nile just in time to see her hide a smile behind her hand.

Andromache was not smiling, but she looked between them with something like approval. It did not matter much to Yusuf, not now, but he was sure Nicolò would be glad of it in time. 

“What will happen,” Andromache said, “When we arrive in Tunis?”

“I suppose we have to find somewhere to stay,” Yusuf said. “Nicolò and I intend to marry – and I need to write Leyla and Copley.” 

“To us?” she clarified.

Nicolò sighed. “I do not particularly wish to spend any more time with either of you. Not for a while, at least.”

“But you will both be spending some time alone once you are wed,” Nile said.

Yusuf turned to look at her and she shrugged. “You can come with us,” he said, “Wherever we go.” He did not need to look to Nicolò to know it was true; no matter what, they would look after his sister.

“You are getting _married,”_ she said. “Regardless of anything else, I want you to have this time with each other.” 

She looked at Andromache, Le Livre, and her jaw was tight. “We will all arrive in Tunis and we will contact Leyla. If there is some good we can do together, then we will do it. Then, when we are all back together again, we will make a decision about where to go from there.”

Oh, but Yusuf loved her. She was not forgiving them, but she was helping them, giving them the purpose he had so desperately wanted when trapped because she knew, without having been through it, without asking, that it was what they _needed._

“But first,” Nile said, and her eyes narrowed, “You will both apologise to my brother.”

“Nile…” Yusuf said.

She shook her head. “I do not want or need an apology,” she said, “But _you?_ They betrayed you in a way that you would be well within your rights to never forgive. An apology is the absolute least they can do.”

“Andromache did that already,” Yusuf said and the woman in question nodded.

“But I could stand to do it again,” she replied. “I am sorry for what I did. If I could do it all again, I would do things differently – but I cannot. I can only do my best to make things right.”

It was a pretty speech, but underneath it Yusuf could hear an undercurrent of truth. He did not trust it was for him, as opposed to being for Nicolò or Nile, but he could accept it for what it was.

Le Livre met Yusuf’s eyes and he realised it was the first time the man had done so since his return. “I should have never–”

Yusuf sighed. “Do not strain yourself, sir,” he said. “I do not wish to hear an apology until you are willing to give it.”

Nicolò made a small, disgruntled noise and beside him, Nile frowned. “Yusuf, he owes you at least this.”

“And I believe you have a lot to contend with first,” Yusuf said, addressing Le Livre. “Your feelings for my sister aside, you do not seem, to me, to be a man who understands who he is, or where he stands. With any luck, this work we will all do with Copley and Leyla will have you in a better place – and I would rather see that change than hear any apology.”

Le Livre stared at him for a long moment before he nodded. His cheeks were red as he murmured, “Excuse me,” and rushed from the deck.

Andromache followed after and Nile turned to Yusuf.

“Are you forgiving him?” she demanded.

“Of course not. Not yet – and I doubt I shall ever forgive him before you do. But I have no need for an apology he does not mean and it will do nothing to assuage his guilt, if he does in fact feel any.”

She sighed, and Nicolò asked, “Are you certain about your plans?”

“As certain as I can be,” she said. “I wish for both of you to spend time together – God knows you have had little enough chance for that. If that means I need to keep them both with me and steer them into doing good, then I will.”

Nicolò smiled. “You are the best of us,” he said and she shook her head.

“Not by half.” She dropped a kiss to Yusuf’s cheek and stood, picking up her book. “We arrive in a few days. It would be nice to see you both for lunch, at least.”

Yusuf laughed as she left them and Nicolò turned to him, resting his chin on one hand. The once-over he gave Yusuf was slow, full of simmering heat, and Yusuf let him look, safe in the knowledge they could act on it, now.

“Where will we go?” Yusuf asked. “After the wedding, I mean.”

“You wish to leave Nile alone with them?”

“I am sure we can convince her to come with us.”

Nicolò snorted, which meant he did not, but that was all a discussion for later, between the three of them. “I have a place,” he said. “In Malta. It is not large but I have owned the property for years and I think I would like to take you there.”

Yusuf smiled. “I would most certainly like to go.” He thought his next words over carefully before he said them. “It is a shame, though, that it is not so large.”

Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “I did not take you for the materialistic type.”

“You know I am not. It is only, I would assume we would want to… how can I say it? _Bless_ every room? More rooms means more possibilities.”

Nicolò stood all at once and before Yusuf could say anything about his feet dropping to the floor, Nicolò had yanked him up by the front of his shirt.

“You are doing your best to be the death of me, hayati.” 

Yusuf brushed his lips against Nicolò’s, just once, because he wished for his next words to be clear. “If we go, we go together.”

Nicolò’s expression softened, his grip gentling, smoothing over Yusuf’s chest. “I would have it no other way.”

They kissed to seal it, heedless of others around them, and Yusuf spared a thought for none other than the man in his arms, a man who meant more to him than he could ever dream – and thought himself the luckiest person in the world, for having found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a wrap, people! 100k and 35 days here and we've made it! i hope you've all enjoyed it as much as i have 🥰
> 
> big thanks to everyone who's ever read a word of this weirdly niche monstrosity i've created; to everyone who's left kudos (especially if you've tried to do that more than once); and to everyone who's commented - even more so for those who have left a comment on every chapter they've read, whether it's incoherent screaming or in-depth analysis. you ALL fuckin rock and i'm so happy to be part of this fandom because i've never written such a supported piece of work in my life.
> 
> one last thing: i'm not going to lie, i was going to make this final chapter longer but it's my birthday today 🥳 (still is, somewhere) and so i wanted to make sure it was up more than i wanted to pad it out... so if you're interested in a sexy lil epilogue, then keep an eye out on the 10th October, when i will be posting my kinktober piece for the prompt 'wet white clothes' - all of you who've seen a variation of pride and prejudice will know what's up!! 😏😏😏 i'm still debating writing a book of nile-centric sequel but if you want updates on that (or to ask me anything - including for fic - or to just scream at me about nicky and joe), then head over to [my tumblr](kyra-bane.tumblr.com) or just subscribe to me here.
> 
> again, it's been an absolute gd privilege to be here and i'm so glad you all enjoyed it. 🖤🖤🖤

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments welcome; lmk if there are any tags I need to add that I haven't thought of! TIA!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tenderness and Pleasure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017299) by [Kyra_Bane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane)




End file.
